


The Flower Knight

by xmasmurdereve



Category: The J
Genre: M/M, an AU for the knnight!Isadale AU, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 46,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmasmurdereve/pseuds/xmasmurdereve
Summary: In all his life as a squire, Isadore had never met a fighter as mysterious as the king's favorite champion, a man known as The Flower Knight. For reasons he couldn't begin to explain, his heart yearned for nothing more than to get closer to him - and that journey will uncover more secrets than he ever would've expected.





	1. The arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the coolest cat in the universe](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+coolest+cat+in+the+universe).



The monarch’s banners swung against the wind, brandishing the kingdom’s insignia – a green beetle, outlined in gold, the colors clashing so distinctively it was the only thing capable of making it seem threatening; or, at least, worthy of notice.

Isadore certainly noticed them, stopping briefly before entering the campground, lifting his head to look at the waving fabric. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of familiarity – his whole life had been spent accompanying those flags; or, at least, accompanying the men who followed them. However, that was as far as his loyalty went: the banners could wield any other symbol, or represent any other house, and he’d still find himself bound by the same sense of duty, escorting those who were actually moved by the emblems themselves.

Either way, that seemed to be sufficient, since despite his wavering sense of fidelity, his honor remained unquestioned enough for him to be summoned to participate in yet another campaign. The letter which had brought him there was scarce in detail, but very clear in its message: he was to join the men congregating by the fields just outside the city walls, where he would then serve under the king’s most powerful champion – the leader of this expedition, a fighter simply known as The Flower Knight.

That name didn’t mean anything in particular to Isadore, but he was clever enough to understand it was a matter of great importance to the monarch – so much so that he’d personally signed the letter, and sent it along with an official messenger task force, making sure it was properly received. One could assume it should be cause for celebration, or at least some level of rejoicing, to be considered worthy of such a task; but Isadore couldn’t tell. Keeping his eyes to the fluttering banners, he held on to the brief sensation of purpose they gave him, savoring it for as long as he could.

But the wind stopped blowing within a minute, and he resumed his way inside the camp.

From the way the other men greeted him as he made his way through the grounds, it was almost as if he was being expected; knights and squires, strategists, cartographers, all greeting him as he passed, briefly wishing him good luck, striking friendly conversation. It wouldn’t be long until the campaign started its journey, they said. They were just waiting for a few others to arrive, for the last arrangements to be settled. Isadore had no idea he’d been summoned with such urgency – he’d never actually considered refusing the king’s request, given the nature of his own office, and the fact that no subject would be capable of declining an order from the crown; but he didn’t know his presence was so heavily awaited.

Either way, he wished it wasn’t.

He wished they’d stop staring.

Some of the others were sensible enough to apologize for their intrusiveness: they didn’t mean to be so invasive, really; it is just such an unprecedented situation. The Flower Knight had never agreed to serve so vehemently under the king’s banner before, let alone allow for the services of a squire – the man was impossible to figure out.

Isadore listened to the comments with an ingrained sense of distance, understanding the words but not fully acknowledging their meaning. He saw no need for such a commotion; whoever the knight was, he’d probably been forced into his current situation due to royal orders, ones not even a fighter of his caliber could refuse. Isadore’s own presence there was the result of such a request, and carried no deeper significance beyond that. Why should the champion be any different?

The others were nice enough to offer directions as to where one could find the fabled Flower Knight, and Isadore followed their leads, arriving at a great tent in the middle of the field. It seemed to be the sort of place that would be used for meetings between the company members, planning out the next courses of action. He entered cautiously, afraid of disrupting any possible events that could be taking place inside.

What he found, however, was a single man hunched over a map spread out across a large wooden table, following the paths laid out before him with his eyes, tracing down plans that would not be accessible to anyone else. His thick brows were furrowed in concentration, and his lips remained naturally curved into a type of expression that was utterly impossible to read, showing no inclination towards neither positive nor negative feelings – the kind that could shift completely within a matter of seconds into either a grin or a frown, with no previous indication as to which one it would be.

His chest was covered by a heavy metal piece, shining in a deep black finish, standing as dark as the man’s hair. On its center stood an ornate engraved detail, depicting a flower with a rather intricate design, surrounded by smaller buds and tangled vines, spreading out across the rest of the armor. It explained the title of The Flower Knight, Isadore thought, but revealed nothing else about him – which, considering the comments of the other campaign members, seemed fitting.

He stared at the pattern printed onto the metal. In all his years as a squire, Isadore had never stumbled across such an insignia, nor had he heard of any fighters that were related to a cause that carried that symbol. He followed the spiraling leaves from the edge of the piece to its center, and then back again to the borders, thinking of how he’d never seen any plant like that in the wild either – it didn’t seem to be connected to any specific region, or carry any known symbolic meaning. The craftsmanship necessary to pull off such a sophisticated illustration was also something to be admired; it was certainly a lot of effort to put into a battle item.

Suddenly, the chestpiece moved along with the man who carried it, as The Flower Knight shifted its vision from the map to the man standing by the tent’s entrance. Isadore kneeled.

“Forgive the interruption”, he said, bowing his head down. “The king has sent me to join your campaign; I was told to look for you.”

“Is that so?”, he heard the man ask. He couldn’t tell whether his voice sounded annoyed or pleased. He could feel the other’s footsteps approaching him as the knight stepped away from the table.

“Yes”, he answered, not knowing if he was expected to – he simply couldn’t stand the silence. He kept his head lowered, afraid this could be seen as spiteful, but even more afraid of coming off as insolent if he attempted to lift it. It was as if all notions of etiquette he’d gathered along the years had vanished from his mind.

“You may stand up if you’d like”, said the knight, now located directly in front of him. Isadore looked upward, meeting the other’s eyes – as darkened and reflective as his armor, giving just as much away. He blinked, trying to regain his composure, or at least not reveal how much he felt like he’d lost it, leaning his weight on his knee and hoisting himself up. The knight had already turned his back to him, walking once more towards the map. “What did you say your name was?”

“Isadore”, replied the squire – not that he had said it before. He wondered if he should apologize for it; but it would’ve been better to do so before replying.

“Just Isadore?”, asked the knight, glancing briefly at the man before turning his attention back to the table.

“Yes, just Isadore is fine”, he answered. He’d abandoned his last name a long time ago. It carried too much weight, and he couldn’t bear to shoulder it; names signified a cause, a connection – things Isadore never felt like he had.

“Very well”, replied the knight, his eyes swiftly browsing through the map. “You may address me as Dale if you wish, but don’t feel alarmed if no one else does it.” 

Isadore was taken aback – for a moment, he’d forgotten the possibility of the man having a name that differed from his title. “Dale”, he sounded it out, almost without realizing it, letting his mind get used to that idea. The knight stared at him, then quickly shifted his attention back to his plans; but Isadore blushed regardless.

“I understand you have been placed under my command”, said the fighter. Isadore couldn’t help but notice the mole on the man’s left cheek. He carried one himself, on his right, perfectly mirrored. It was the sort of coincidence that only added to the eerie feeling building up in his chest, like this was all a dream. “However”, continued the champion, “I’m afraid you’ll find there isn’t much to be done. If at any point you find it is best for you to leave, please know that you are free to do so.”

Isadore blinked. That was opposite of anything his profession entailed. “I’m sure there is always something one can help with”, he commented, trying to sound as certain as possible, despite how tangled his insides felt. “I am always glad to be of service, whenever I am required to.” He took a half-step forward, his best attempt at looking confident. He was thankful Dale wasn’t looking at him.

“Is that so”, said the man, and although he worded it as a question, it barely felt like one. Isadore wondered if his voice carried a bit of sarcasm – or anger, or amusement, or anything other than neutrality. He couldn’t tell.

The room fell silent. Maybe it was anger that he’d sensed after all; a notion of utter displeasure, disapproval. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t aggravate it any further.

“May I ask how you ended up here?”, asked the knight, without looking up. His expression was just as focused as when Isadore had first seen it; and although this had happened only a few minutes ago, it felt like an eternity, the kind of chasm that separates entirely different eras.

“As I’d said, the king has requested me to join you”, he said, straightening up his posture upon realizing how much he’d been hunching. “I assumed you were understaffed, but I now see this isn’t the case…”

“We need every man we can get”, said Dale, his voice sounding surprisingly stiff – but what that stiffness represented still lied beyond the squire. “I expect you’ve been involved in campaigns like this before.”

“I have, actually!”, smiled Isadore, feeling something other than absolute incompetence for the first time ever since he first landed on camp. “The knight I served under before you had been a part of some as well.”

“And why do you no longer serve under him?”, asked the man, his eyes staring off into previously uncharted trails spread out through the map.

“Ah. He is dead, I’m afraid.” Isadore looked away, clasping his own hands together. “Fatal blow to the neck.” His mouth curved into a sad smile, one he couldn’t explain even if he tried.

Dale looked up from the table, staring right at Isadore – who lifted his head back up, and was caught off guard by the man’s heavy eyes. “I’m terribly sorry”, said the knight, and Isadore nearly stepped back, his chest lost in a hopeless flutter. He could feel his heart beating faster, taken over by a feeling he’d never expected to hit him with such force, but whose source was perhaps the most surprising aspect of it: be it in his voice or in his stare, The Flower Knight emanated nothing but warmth, a glow so loaded and caring it could shatter any wall, overcome any distance. It did so with such tenacity, with an energy that had never known any doubt, and that glowed as naturally and as powerfully as the sun itself; for an instant, a second, allowing itself to be felt, to be understood.

For the first time, Isadore could read him; even if he felt like the one who no longer had any secrets left to hide.

But Dale looked away, and the room grew cold once more.

“Thank you”, said Isadore, still feeling somewhat lightheaded. He looked down at the ground, a movement that quickly turned into a bowing motion, and he saw himself heading towards the exit. “I hope I can be of service”, he said, stepping back outside.

The wind had picked up again, waving the king’s banners high into the air, staining the sky with its unmatching colors. Isadore let his stare drift towards them, trying to fully process his recent encounter. The Flower Knight matched every description he’d been given, while somehow managing to elude all of them.

As far as Isadore could tell, the one thing that was truly impossible to figure out was the reason why he was still blushing.


	2. Myths and stories

It was true that Isadore had seen his fair share of campaigns along the years; accompanying their men accounted for most of what his office consisted of. The reasons seemed to vary, but still fell within a predictable range – sieges, wars, conquests. He did what was needed, be it polishing armor or helping its respective knight into it, assisting the men in setting up camp or dismantling it when it was time to move on; he could even hold his own in battle, despite how limited his fighting skills were.

However, the scenario he was currently faced with clashed against all his previous experiences, destroying his expectations. This present group, for starters, was much bigger than any other ones he’d seen. Isadore wondered if they were actually gearing up for war, but his confusion only increased upon learning that the true objective of this mission was the retrieval of a relic supposedly located within the northern mountains.

He’d questioned whether it wouldn’t be best to send out a smaller team, perhaps even a single champion – they’d certainly travel much lighter and outrun any other parties that could be heading towards the same location, a party that big couldn’t possibly keep up with the necessary pace to get there first – but was met with resigned shrugs explaining that this was the way the king had ordered it. The monarch was apparently placing a lot of faith in this expedition, and those who’d debated him in the past had met a side of him that was much less kind than the one he was generally known for.

What this relic was, exactly, served as the cause for a lot of speculation. Some said it was a glass wand who could grant its carrier any wish; others said it was a crown made of stone, capable of erasing one’s most painful memories. A few even dared to say it was no object at all, but instead a fountain that would bless anyone who drank from it with knowledge beyond human capabilities. Some went as far as to claim the relic had the power to bring people back from the dead – and seeing how the king had recently lost a son, it didn’t seem too farfetched. Every man on camp seemed to have their own interpretation of what the myth could bring or the shape it took, leading Isadore to the conclusion that the only thing that was known for sure about the relic was the mystery that surrounded it.

He didn’t concern himself too much with it. He’d seen even more fickle causes driving knights to madness. The king at least seemed sure enough in his goal of acquiring it – and, if the object was truly as powerful as the countless differing legends consistently affirmed it to be, the reason as to why someone would wish to possess it seemed fairly obvious to his mind. The rest of the camp appeared to be a lot more invested in this narrative than he was, which wasn’t that uncommon for him; he’d follow the group and complete their mission, just as he’d done with all other campaigns, but its cause never seemed to move him at his core the same way it did to the rest of his peers.

On that regard, what truly brought him a sense of accomplishment was merely serving under those that were more easily swayed, making sure that their journeys reached a satisfying conclusion. After his first interaction with The Flower Knight, Isadore had to admit that he was somewhat eager to discover what his future ones would be like – but would soon find out that they could barely be classified as encounters.

The champion spent most of his time in isolation. Whenever he was seen, he was alone, and always seemed to make sure he remained that way. If others attempted to approach him – for he was always the one to be approached, and never the one carrying out the approaching – he’d respond to their inquiries with the bare minimum, and quickly, albeit cordially, dismiss them as soon as he got the chance.

Isadore had been a victim of this treatment on the very next day following his arrival, upon trying to contact the man after not seeing him for the entirety of the previous afternoon. The squire wasn’t exactly proficient in small talk, but he at least made an effort – which the knight had been quick to cut short. Isadore attempted to ask whether his help was necessary, but was briskly told otherwise, and the fighter carried on with his path, sharply walking away.

The squire had tried a similar approach later on, and once again on the following day, but was always met with the same response. The others assured him he shouldn’t worry; that was the reaction everyone got, and the one they were apparently fated to always get. As they’d said, the man was impossible to figure out.

Once the team was deemed complete, the camp was dismantled and the men set off into the land, following a map that supposedly led to the exact location of the relic – the same map Isadore remembered seeing stretched out on the table, being thoroughly examined by the Flower Knight. He wondered if the same man would be responsible for guiding the group, seeing as how he’d traced so many paths with his mind; but when they set off, Isadore found him riding to the side, almost breaking the formation of the rest. Even when traveling, the man wouldn’t dare show himself as anything but distant.

This pattern repeated itself even as the group stopped to rest, with Dale setting up a tent not exactly far from the party, but still standing in isolation – and no one was daring enough to approach it. There was no need: the knight always handled everything on his own. 

The others joked about it, and Isadore chuckled along – but he felt his chest being crushed whenever he did it.

He thought back to their first encounter, Dale’s eyes just as dark as his armor, as if carrying a mystery that was perfectly fine remaining so, inviting no one to solve it; standing so unreachable, so inhospitable in their nature, only to suddenly shift completely, sparkling with a glow that is reserved only to the most intimate of pairs, the kind of trust and comfort that can be achieved solely after years of mutual trust.

Isadore wondered if anyone else had seen that side of the knight. Would they still call him unreadable if they had? Was the party’s general opinion on the champion so unchallenged that they couldn’t fathom him holding such glow within? He knew part of the reason why they joked so much was a deep sense of intimidation, which seemed to be an inescapable side effect of interacting with the fighter – but was that all they had? Nothing but the acceptance of the fact that they would never get to connect with him. Had they all been through the process of trying to get closer? Had they all failed?

Was Isadore meant to run into the same fate, should he try?

He’d wonder such things, but deep down he knew they were simply fantasies. All his previous attempts at interacting with The Flower Knight had been broken off, cancelled before they could amount to anything. Still, there could be no harm in entertaining such thoughts, as long as he never acted up on them.

He seemed to have plenty of time to engage in those lines of thinking, apparently, since he so often found himself lost in them. The campaign’s slow progress wasn’t helping; such a big group had trouble moving in synchrony, and they spent a lot of time setting up camp to rest. Most days dragged themselves by, and uneventful sequence of hours slowly melting into each other, perhaps setting one’s mind roaming a little too free.

But sometimes, they ran into other campaigns.

The roads taken weren’t particularly busy – they led to no places of great commercial interest, and safer routes had already been implemented when it came to connecting the nearby villages. If other groups were using them, they were most likely seeking the same end goal. Some of them announced this rather proudly, stating that they were on a mission to capture the relic for some ruler or another, while others retreated as soon as they saw the sheer size of the campaign Isadore found himself to be a part of. On the cases like the latter, there was nothing to be done except move forward. As for the former instances, on the other hand, the initial clash always resulted in a battle.

And the battles always resulted in a victory for The Flower Knight.

Isadore knew it was really a triumph for the group as a whole – they all fought bravely and stood their ground, earning the right to carry on, which was really all that mattered. However, a single glimpse at the battlefield and it became clear that the real star was none other than the king’s favorite champion.

Dale fought with such impeccable dexterity, outperforming every other fighter who surrounded him. He dodged attacks with the same grace as a dancer, striking back with unforeseen swiftness, like a hawk swooping down upon its prey with one fatal blow. His black armor glistened against the field, with a shine reserved for the most precious of stones, its detailed pattern spiraling along with the intricate strokes of the knight’s sword, brandished like an instrument of art instead of violence, writing poetry on air. He was never hit; and could never be, with how each and every move he made matched so perfectly with the hits posed against him, as if he’d watched the entire battle in advance and planned his moves accordingly. Even alone, he took down many, and outdid the work of all who were left.

And when it was all said and done, he accepted no praise, refused all help, and retired to his tent.

The others shivered in admiration, returning to their chatty ways, sharing their own stories of what they’d seen The Flower Knight do, and the many feats he’d accomplished in the past. Isadore listened, awestruck. Even after all those years, he’d never seen any other fighter come even close to the skill level displayed by the champion.

One time, feeling particularly brave, he asked the other men about everything they knew concerning The Flower Knight. His origins, history, loyalties, anything. But the others had nothing of real value to offer – the stories varied almost as wildly as their theories concerning the relic, with some sticking to the mundane and saying the knight had spent his youth traveling across the land being trained by the best fighters he could find, while the rest preferred to think there was some supernatural explanation to his abilities, such as a blessing placed upon him by an ancient entity.

Still, there were some threads that appeared multiple times within the different narratives, even if they carried some level of variation. Many mentioned a period in which The Flower Knight had gone rogue, which could explain the black armor, or the unknown pattern etched onto it. The man’s distant nature was also a constant theme, but this had been present from the start. 

However, the one thread which showed up the most, making itself present in all stories, as surreal or as grounded as they were, was the fact that The Flower Knight had someone he fought for.

Some posed her as a past lover, one he failed to court in years prior, and that he is now desperately trying to prove his worth to; others described her as a fair maiden locked up in a tower, with the knight’s goal being to become strong enough to free her; there were also those who said she was long gone, and that the memory of her is the only thing that holds a place in the champion’s heart. Those tales were told to Isadore with varying levels of exaggeration, but they were always there, and always saved for last – as if that was the secret which explained everything else, the one true reason as to why the man behaves the way he does. The one love story capable of justifying his nature.

Isadore knew it was unwise to dismiss them, but every time he heard them, he couldn’t help but question their accuracy the most. Perhaps they’d been crafted so that the other men could wrap their heads around The Flower Knight’s lonesome tendencies – he was distant to the rest of the world, but still capable of performing closeness where it really mattered. It seemed only plausible; as if he couldn’t exist without this footnote, this justification.

Still, the men always concluded their tales with a shrug. That’s what they’d heard, but they couldn’t confirm it, they said. The only one who knows the truth would be the fighter himself.

Isadore went over those stories in his head, lying awake at night, struggling to fall asleep. Should they be true, then Dale’s sentiment for his romantic counterpart was surely unmatched, for only the strongest of such feelings could serve as enough motivation to allow him to outbattle every single opponent he encountered. How fantastic it would be, he thought, to have something that worth fighting for.

And then, eventually, one way or another, Isadore’s thoughts drifted back to their first encounter, and he wondered if Dale also showed that same kind of warmth to whomever this companion may be.

To see that same glow in his eyes, to hear that same sympathy in his voice; over and over again.

How fantastic it would be.


	3. The squire's request

Progress was being made, there was no doubt of that – on the route to the relic, at least. There hadn’t been a single battle where Isadore’s current campaign came even close to being defeated, and there hadn’t been any major setbacks or disasters either. The group got along well, and seemed focused enough to make good strides, despite their sluggish traveling pace. Isadore still thought a smaller taskforce would’ve been swifter, but he could work with what he had.

That is, until their journey staggered.

Upon arriving at a mountainside path, meant to take the campaign to a shortcut through the valley, they found that the road had been completely blocked off due to a rockslide. Just like that, the quickest trail had been etched off the map, with a strike so violent and sudden that no amount of careful planning could’ve prevented it. Although the surrounding tracks now stood as the only viable course, the campaign had initially planned on avoiding them at all costs, for they were supposedly full of enemies – standing right at the limit of the kingdom’s territory.

A few men were sent to explore the area, trying to figure out the next best course of action; and so the campaign set camp, not entirely sure of how it would proceed – or when it would get moving again.

Isadore stayed back. He did have quite a way with maps, but he was unfamiliar with the region, and wouldn’t be much use in a fight, in case he was suddenly thrown into one. He wished he could say he felt more comfortable working behind the scenes, but ever since he’d met The Flower Knight, he hadn’t even been able to do much of that.

He soon found that the same scenario remained true, except made twice as distressing thanks to the wait. The rest of the party seemed surprisingly calm – they still stood alert, in case of an attack, and kept their apparent commitment to finding the relic; but when Isadore looked around, he saw no shoulders as tense as his, no eyes as sickened with anxiety.

Part of him wondered if he was overdoing it. Nobody expected him to care so much; the other men constantly told him to relax, especially when it came to his frustrations in dealing with The Flower Knight. In fact, he didn’t even understand why he worried so much – he had no particular feelings towards the subject of this mission, and hadn’t even managed to connect with the champion meant to carry it out. He’d felt since the very beginning that this party was overstaffed. He was an expendable member of an expendable crusade, seeking a relic that no one could accurately describe, for reasons no one was able to name. There was no reason to justify all the agony in his chest.

That is, until he saw it reflected on Dale’s.

Every morning, The Flower Knight left with the rest of the group to scout the area, and every evening he returned – a bit behind them at first, then separated by a full mile, which in turn increased with each passing day, to the point where he started to arrive back at camp hours later. Whenever he did it, his eyes carried a look of determination so desperate it was unbearably heavy, staring only straight ahead, meeting no one else’s on the fighter’s way to his tent. 

If anything, Isadore was certain that no one wanted to move on as much as The Flower Knight.

It didn’t take long until the fighter started leaving earlier and earlier as well. Isadore first caught it one night he couldn’t sleep, having decided to take a stroll through the peaceful campgrounds before anyone else woke up, after hours of unsuccessful slumber. It wouldn’t be long before the sun would rise, and the sky wasn’t done deciding if it wanted to stay dark or not, melting into different shades of lilac pretending they weren’t purple just a minute ago. The squire admired the spectacle, fighting through the fading chill of the breaking dawn, suddenly meeting Dale’s gaze as the other exited the premises – their eyes connecting for a split second, so fast it shouldn’t make a difference; but Isadore couldn’t let go of that instant for the rest of the day.

It was the same expression as The Flower Knight would carry on practically all other occasions – impeccably focused; confidence so true that it wasted no time trying to prove to others that it was real. However, at the same time, it also felt different. Maybe because it didn’t carry the weariness of a full day’s travelling, too preoccupied with the possibilities that lied ahead to remain attached to what had already happened; maybe it was just the different light reflected on the knight’s eyes, their darkness so flawlessly complemented by his equally blackened armor, contrasting with the clearing sky. A few others had seen him leave, but they didn’t comment on any supposed change in his appearance, sticking simply to mindless remarks over the champion’s overachieving nature, lost in a haze of admiration.

Isadore wondered if he was once again overthinking the situation – after all, nothing pointed towards there being anything out of the ordinary. He tried to let it go, falling back into the same waiting routine he’d been trapped in, unable to do anything to break from it.

However, he once again found himself in a state of unrest, strolling through the tranquil campgrounds even earlier than the previous time – the sky seemed more than fine with being violet, not planning on changing its color anytime soon, and the air still glowed frigid in his lungs, with no suggestion of the warmth sunrise would eventually bring.

And so, he saw The Flower Knight once again setting off, turning back one last time before leaving camp – his eyes immediately meeting Isadore’s.

And it was against that purple-lit sky, staring at the same dark eyes, glistening along the same onyx armor, that Isadore decided there was definitely something about it that was not the same; a glow, so particular and silent, daring to suggest there was something beyond the walls it had so meticulously built, holding the power to destroy the barriers put up by anyone else, but instead choosing not to do so.

And lying awake at night, many, many times after that, Isadore found himself craving that very glow.

He didn’t actively decide to stay up, but his body never let him do anything else; before the sun would rise, earlier each day, the squire would pace through the field after a night of restlessness, staring off into the horizon until his eyes were met by Dale’s. Every single time.

It was always in the morning – if he could call it so. He found no other name for the moment right before it; perhaps its existence had been forgotten, or undiscovered, until he claimed it for himself. Either way, he’d made attempts at meeting The Flower Knight’s gaze after sundown, when he came back from his own exploring missions, but it never happened.

He still tried, however, despite his lack of success – and what he found was that, on every occasion, his pursuits happened a little later than the previous night, with even fewer men still standing on the quiet field, diving deeper and deeper into the night.

Until the time where it seemed like The Flower Knight wouldn’t return at all, only for Isadore to spot him making his way back to camp at a time that was much closer to the sun rising again than of it setting; only for him to leave again shortly after. The interval had become irrelevant.

There had to be a limit somewhere, Isadore figured; the thought had first crossed his mind shortly after the campaign had set off. He just wasn’t sure of where that line stood, and sometimes he left like he was much more prone to crossing it than spotting it. This idea echoed in his head with each unsettling situation, every red flag – the excessive proportions of the campaign, the conflicting descriptions of the relic, the countless times his help had been refused. He knew he’d be pushed to a point where he simply could not take it anymore.

On that night, he found that moment to be the first time Dale’s eyes didn’t meet his as the other left the campgrounds.

Something was wrong, on a level that only he seemed to notice. No one else had said or would ever say anything about it, for they couldn’t see it – not the way he saw it. Whenever they talked, their words rung empty, void of substance; it might as well just be the wind. Isadore understood that they couldn’t possibly have known warmth, for they did not care about the lack thereof.

No; if he wanted to get to the bottom of The Flower Knight’s troubles, he’d have to do so on his own. Was it selfish of him to do so, he wondered? The man owed him nothing; and even if he did decide to share anything, Isadore would have little to offer in response. Still, something inside him told him that it was at least worth a shot.

He made his way to The Flower Knight’s tent, despite all the warnings he would’ve gotten if anyone had been aware of his plans. Isadore wished he could say he’d stormed into the premises, for his chest was barely able to contain the hurricane that unfolded within it; however, he found himself painfully aware of how the only way to describe his entrance would be to say he’d stumbled inside instead.

Not that it seemed to matter, for the champion barely noticed his presence. The scene Isadore found carried an uncanny resemblance to their first encounter, with the knight arched over a map spread across a table, his eyes carrying a look so focused it made the room seem blurry by comparison. Although the parchment had been sketched over, outlining the blocked paths they could no longer cross, the man’s face stood as a blank slate, carrying no signs to interpret, no language to translate – it said nothing, and showed no signs of what it could possibly come to say.

Isadore wondered if he should kneel, as he did last time; but he had a feeling it wouldn’t matter. His entrance hadn’t even been observed by the fighter. Merely standing there, however, also felt wildly inadequate. It was hard to adjust to the social etiquette of a man who showed no preoccupation towards it.

He settled for a clumsy bow, lowering his head slightly, following the movement with his back, a motion embellished by the words “Forgive me for the interruption, sir”, which shuffled out of the squire’s mouth just as awkwardly as the rest of his actions so far.

The Flower Knight looked up for a brief second, but quickly turned his attention back to the document in front of him. “Something the matter?”, he asked, so drily it was impossible to tell whether he wanted there to be something or not. 

Isadore hesitated. Was there something the matter, after all? He felt as though there was – but what it was, exactly, still eluded him. There was a concern, or at least the vague notion of it, but it pointed to nowhere specific, and demanded no actual solving. He was entailed to nothing; he had no right to act upon the lack of a glare that had never been promised to him in the first place. Still, that was all he had. How could he act based on that? He had to say yes, otherwise there’d be no justification for his visit. 

“Yes”, he said, the word sounding estranged to him as soon as he spoke it. If he didn’t elaborate on it, there’d be no justification for his visit, for his presence. “Or, rather, no”, he corrected himself, looking away for a moment, only for his eyes to shift back to the knight, who didn’t even appear to acknowledge the phrases uttered. “I came here to… see if you were in need of something.”

“And what would that be?”, asked the fighter, though the question sounded distant; Isadore wondered if it was actually directed at him.

“Anything”, stammered the squire, nearly taking a step closer, but stopping himself before his feet were able to move. “You have been working so tirelessly, I’m sure…” the words trailed off, falling into silence. For a moment, Isadore wished the unfinished sentence could be seen as an invitation, a peace offering; but as the knight stayed quiet, it only stood as a monument to his failure. 

“So have many others”, said the fighter, after a frighteningly long pause. “It is what must be done, if we are to find a way though the region.”

“Ah.” Isadore looked down. “That is true.” He breathed in, feeling his head grow heavier, crushed by a weight he refused to understand. “I just cannot help but wonder… if this is the best way to proceed”, he heard himself saying, almost without realizing it.

“Do you question my judgement?”, asked the knight, without lifting his eyes from the map. 

Isadore could feel his face burning up. A polite answer, a compliment, any form of reassurance – those were the kinds of things he was required to say. No one in their right mind would find a reason why he shouldn’t stick to such a code. It was what he’d been trained to do; announcing the right words at the right moment was just as crucial as knowing how to properly swing a sword, how to stand one’s ground.

And yet, no one in their right mind would’ve walked into that tent.

“It has been taking its toll on you”, Isadore said, in a move he wished had been done without thinking – but his mind felt clearer now than it had in a long time. “…Hasn’t it?”, he asked, bracing himself for the impact.

However, there was no answer.

The Flower Knight made no shift to his stance, no adjustment to his expression. No change at all, from the moment Isadore came in – or, he now realized, even before that. From the moment the squire stepped into camp, the fighter had been the exact same man; he’d made no attempts to accommodate the rest, keeping solely to himself, bearing the same attitude. He was impossible to read, the squire understood, for there was nothing to be read. He played no games, carried no expectations; he knew where he stood, and he stood there alone. So it was, and so, Isadore concluded, it would always be.

And then, a flicker.

A single twitch of the knight’s brow, breaking its neutral furrowed stance for a fraction of a second. Isadore looked to the other’s hands, tightly holding on to the edge of table; shoulders so tense they wouldn’t allow a single shiver to pass through. The fighter’s eyes no longer stared at the parchment, in spite of what their position might indicate – instead, their gaze went beyond the maps stretched out before it, traveling even further than the wood beneath it, or the ground where it all stood; still carrying the same force, the same determination, but with a terribly lost aspect to them.

Isadore watched the scene unfold before him, though the changes were so minimal one could wonder if they had even happened at all. Perhaps they weren’t even changes; perhaps it’d always been there, all the pieces to a puzzle that the squire only now realized could be solved. 

“Dale”, he said, the name flowing through his mouth like honey, sounding so dangerously natural; it came to him almost as second nature, the one protocol his mind automatically shifted to. For a moment, he hadn’t even considered using the knight’s official title – and once that moment was over, he had no regrets over using the other’s real name. He took a step forward, kneeling before the fighter. “I wish for you to train me.”

Dale broke is stance, straightening up his back, staring right at Isadore. The squire lowered his head as soon as his eyes met the fighter’s. The fighter said nothing, but Isadore felt his question through the silence.

“Your skills are unmatched, and astonishing beyond compare”, he explained. “No man in this camp would hesitate to say you are the reason behind our victories.” The silence continued, this time as permission, as interest. “I know I am of little use to you. You’ve made that abundantly clear”, he said, knowing the comment to be fueled by a resentfulness he’d never admit to feeling – though the sentence came out so naturally it nearly sounded as a confession. “So please, allow me to become better. At least then I can be helpful, even if it that is limited to the battlefield.” He lowered his head even further, burying his chin down on his neck. “Please, allow me to be useful.”

There was a pause; silence that said nothing at all.

Isadore listened as Dale let out a choked laugh, followed by a sigh. Whether of pain or relief, he couldn’t tell; just because the man could be understood, didn’t mean that the squire understood him. He thought back to the knight’s neutral expression, and how it felt so constantly close to shifting completely to either type of emotion – as if it carried an eager potential for change, so ready to burst, eternally festering in growing expectations. He wondered if it would ever crack under the pressure.

“It would be an honor to train you”, said the knight. Isadore looked up, but Dale had turned back to the table. 

“…The honor is all mine”, replied the squire, standing himself up. He blinked, still trying to take in what had just happened; even though he’d been the one to begin the conversation, he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

The tent fell silent again, and The Flower Knight’s gaze drifted back to the map, truly looking at it this time, instead of phasing his gaze right through it. Isadore smiled softly, knowing he should be thankful for this restored sense of order – but his face did little to hide the sadness that crept into his chest.

All was well, and somehow different – but so little had actually changed.

He turned back to the tent’s entrance, ready to head back into camp.

“Isadore”, he heard Dale call. The squire shifted back immediately, his eyes suddenly meeting Dale’s – only to realize that it was the same gaze that had finalized their conversation during their first encounter: the same burning warmth, glowing care. It carried more color than any sunset, more life than any forest; the sort of unspeakable power that entire armies would fight to conquer, the very driving force that could make this happen. “Thank you”, said the knight, his voice just as heavy, just as loaded, burning just as hard.

Isadore nodded weakly in response, suddenly muted. 

Dale nodded back, lowering his head once more, breaking off the connection.

The squire walked back outside, staring at the sky. There’d be no use in trying to sleep now. And yet, somehow, he felt more rested than he had in weeks.


	4. Training

The news came as a shock to the rest of the party, not that it had ever been formally announced. Either way, everyone could see the events unfolding before them. Not so much the trailing of a new path, now that the safest route had been determined and the campaign could carry on at last; what really caught the camp’s attention was how The Flower Knight seemed to have taken on a new apprentice.

The fact that this subject was Isadore wasn’t exactly questioned – he was the fighter’s assigned squire, after all. It was only logical. What eluded their comprehension was how he’d gotten the champion to allow such a thing to happen. After all, the latter was still the man who insisted on riding at a safe distance, and refused to engage in conversation with the rest of the party unless absolutely necessary. 

Of course, he’d be the wrong source to ask about it; so they turned to Isadore instead.

He never really knew what to answer when the others came to him for information. In a way, he felt as if it didn’t really matter. Their interest was as eager as it was fickle, and although his case was indeed most curious, whatever he said was immediately taken at face value, so he might as well fabricate any narrative he wanted.

He gave them the truth, as far as he could go. He said the training had been a mutual arrangement, which wasn’t a lie – he simply omitted most of the conversation that led to it, especially the parts about how he asked to be trained, or the gaze he’d been gifted along with his permission. It was irrelevant to the rest, and he hadn’t managed to convince himself that it was true either; part of him was still utterly convinced he was dreaming.

As for the rest, there also wasn’t much to be said. Isadore offered himself to pass on the pointers he’d been given, but he knew that wasn’t what the men were after. They wanted facts, certainty, a confirmation to the lore they’d heard concerning The Flower Knight. Isadore couldn’t blame them – but couldn’t do much else on that regard either.

Without the desired information, however, the others were at a loss of what to think of the whole ordeal. To be fair, Isadore didn’t know what to think of it himself. He’d never made any formal deals with the knight, who in return called him to training simply by staring, usually from across camp. It didn’t take long for Isadore’s eyes to meet his – it was as if part of him knew, like he was always somehow aware of the other’s presence – and whenever it happened, he knew exactly what it was about.

Dale always guided him to a more secluded spot, so they wouldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t much of a conversation moment, unless one were to count Dale’s instructions as attempts at small talk. “Your stance is too wide”; “Try loosening your arm as you swing it”; “Quit closing your eyes as you strike”. Isadore took them with a whispered yes, sir and the occasional apology, letting the silence fall once more between them, broken only by the sound of their clashing swords.

The Flower Knight tried his best at being a teacher, and certainly had a lot of knowledge to pass on. Isadore knew how lucky he was to have been granted this opportunity. Still, it was hard work: he often found himself knocked down to the ground, struck by a blow he never would’ve seen coming, no matter how many times he told himself it would be the last time he’d let it happen.

And every single time, Dale would offer him his hand, helping him up and telling him to try again.

Once they were done, they went their separate ways; Dale retiring back to his tent, refusing any further help, and Isadore soon being swarmed by other members of the party, asking about how it’d gone. Whenever opportunity struck again, as the campaign stopped to rest or to calculate their next route, their eyes would meet once more, and they’d resume their interaction.

Isadore decided it was best not to question how The Flower Knight had gotten so good. The answer would only discourage him – he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never get on the champion’s level. The mystery made it feel more like an impossible feat, a chance of one in a million, instead of something any man could supposedly achieve if they tried hard enough.

Still, as he stared at the pattern on the man’s armor, the countless spiraling petals etched onto the black metal, he couldn’t help but ask himself the story behind the piece, or of the knight who carried it. It remained so different, so unexplainable. Had it ever allowed itself to be explained at all?

Isadore fell to the ground.

He felt the aftermath of the blow to his chest, the pain slowly creeping in, aching through his lungs, then expanding into the ribcage. He looked up, seeing Dale’s extended hand, taking a moment to catch his breath before holding on to it.

“You still hold yourself back”, Dale said.

“Excuse me?”, asked Isadore. That was the first time the knight had ever mentioned anything of the sort.

“From the moment we began training, you were holding yourself back”, the fighter clarified. “Whenever you strike, you still do.”

Isadore blinked. He’d been giving his all since they started, there was nothing left to hold. “…I’m sorry”, he said, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. It just felt like what needed to be said.

Dale leaned down, taking Isadore’s hand and helping his squire up. Isadore was still regaining his strength, which the knight seemed to realize, as he assumed no immediate fighting stance. Instead, he leaned his weight on one leg, staring off into the afternoon sky. Isadore did the same.

“…When did you become a knight?”, he heard himself asking, his curiosity taking the best of him. There was no response, which was expected. He knew it was a bad idea – The Flower Knight wasn’t keen on chatting.

Much to his surprise, however, Dale broke the silence after a few moments, simply stating “I left my family when I was rather young”. The squire looked at the fighter, who kept his eyes aimed at the horizon. There was another pause, every second covered in anxiety – Isadore had no idea whether that would be it, or if there was still more to come. The answer came in the form of a second comment: “I’m sure you must be familiar with the narrative.”

Isadore shook his head. “Everyone on camp has a different theory”, he said.

Dale looked at him, almost smiling. “I meant that you must’ve left your family at a young age as well”, he explained, turning his gaze back to the sky. “I didn’t know about the theories.”

Isadore twitched, hoping his cheeks were flushed enough from the recent exercise, for it’d be his only hope of concealing his blushing. “I didn’t mean to gossip”, he apologized. “I suppose it’s just a common reason for speculation.”

“What did they say?”, asked the knight. Isadore saw the grin that had made itself a home on the man’s face; it was always surprising to see Dale with an expression that differed from his usual formal self. It was the kind of smile that stemmed from intrigue, instead of harshness – if anything, the squire should at least be glad the other wasn’t furious.

“The narratives vary”, explained the squire. “There’s really no way of telling what is based on facts.”

“Try me”, smiled Dale, suddenly shifting himself towards Isadore, who nearly took a step back.

“Ah, well…” he stammered, going through the matching threads he’d compiled earlier in their journey. “Some say your abilities are a divine blessing, a gift from a higher being.”

“Is that so?”, Dale wondered, his grin fading a little. “There really seems to be no limit to their imagination.”

“So it could be said”, commented Isadore, somewhat emptily. He paused, the silence building up again between them. “…But is it true?”

Dale laughed, full of breath and no voice, like the wind rustling through the meadow. “Unfortunately, no.” He took a step back, holding on to his sword. “But it would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”, his voice trailed off along with his grin, his posture shifting into a much more aggressive stance. Isadore smiled in resignation, completing the end of the conversation by mimicking the knight’s stance, their subsequent combat occupying the space once filled by words.

On their next encounter, Isadore tried again. “Is it true you’ve traveled the world in search for its best fighters?”, he asked, picking at another common theme in the theories. The men once again found themselves in a moment of pause inbetween duels, the squire having just been picked off the ground like on the previous time. He wondered if Dale would ignore the question altogether, shifting back into a battle pose as an attempt to stop the conversation from happening; instead, he responded – which to Isadore felt as unexpected as the blows that so often knocked him down.

“I’ve had good mentors, I cannot deny that”, the knight explained, “but it’d be wrong to say I searched the world for them.” There was a pause; Isadore simply breathed. “Seems like a bit of an empty cause to search the world for.” And no further elaborations were made.

Every following encounter brought a new question, which was miraculously always answered; albeit in Dale’s own way of delivering information. Yes, he had gone rogue for a while; but wouldn’t go into when or why. No, the pattern on his armor wasn’t exactly tied to any flowers he could think of; but the origins behind such a symbol were his to keep. Yes, he’d always served under the same king, even before he’d adopted his own flag. No, he wouldn’t say he was moved by vengeance, though he was sure there were a few men out there which he’d wronged, and who would love to see his head chopped off. 

The answers were never declared with a grin, as the first one had been, but Isadore could tell that the knight still felt the same way about delivering them – something about the certainty in his voice, or the distracted look in his eyes; the smile carried on in other ways, figured the squire. Even neutrality could be questioned.

“Were you born into a house of great riches?”, asked Isadore, keeping up with the tradition. “Or did you come from the common folk?”

“My house had quite a name for itself, I must say”, started Dale, “which I assume is how these things usually go. Though I can see why the narrative of having a knight such as myself come from nothing can be comforting.” He turned to Isadore, his head slightly leaning to the side. “I figured you’d be familiar with the traditions, as I recall having stated before.”

“Ah, yes, I am”, Isadore nodded, but soon felt his head starting to shake. “I mean, I understand how it usually goes, the path that knights are bound to take. I just… Don’t think I am the best person to discuss what is usual.”

“And why is that?”, asked Dale, fully shifting his posture towards the squire – who in turn couldn’t bring himself to meet The Flower Knight’s gaze.

“Your path, the path of knightlihood… It was the one I was meant to follow”, he stated. “But apparently I was sick as a child, and was deemed too unhealthy to leave when I was supposed to.” He always felt weird thinking about his early days – he could barely remember them. He didn’t even know if they were happy enough to be missed. “And those problems persisted throughout most of my youth, to the point where I was deemed unworthy… of ever becoming a knight, I suppose.” His vision trailed off, unfocused. He saw nothing in front of him. “Following knights was still viable enough, and so I stick to it”, he paused, realizing how close he was to crying. 

Dale didn’t move, still keeping his body shifted towards Isadore – but the latter couldn’t turn to him. For once, he wished he’d be met with a look of indifference, or no look at all; for he knew that one glimpse of Dale’s caring gaze could send him sobbing. However, he knew he couldn’t bear not being regarded as relevant. Indifference would save him, yes, but it would also destroy him. He preferred nothing at all.

And so he kept his position until The Flower Knight moved, assuming his usual fighting stance – but when Isadore was knocked to the ground, as he always was, Dale’s hand lingered upon the squire’s after lifting him up, his fingers letting go one by one.

On their next encounter, Isadore finally asked the one question that had been burning at his chest ever since he first heard the stories: “Is it true that you have a lady you fight for?”

Dale chuckled, staring into the horizon. “Is that what they’ve been saying?”, he questioned. 

Isadore nodded.

“Well”, The Flower Knight stepped back, shifting back into an aggressive posture. “Let them think whatever they want”, he concluded, and he grinned – though this time it showed no amusement behind it.

Isadore followed his lead, knowing exactly what he wished to think of the matter – and knowing he’d never tell a soul he wished it to be untrue.


	5. The girl from the field

Though the questioning was over, training still continued.

Isadore saw no point in asking The Flower Knight for any further details regarding his life. He’d run out of threads to check, and couldn’t bring himself to pry any more. Every time he’d inquired about it in the past, his guilt stung just as bitterly as curiosity; he had no right to know, and Dale had no obligation to share. Even if, for some reason, the other always did, the squire’s own conscience wouldn’t give him peace.

Maybe it was best to carry on in silence, just as their arrangement had begun. However, much to his surprise, it was Dale who started asking the questions once Isadore offered him no more words. He always answered, knowing himself to be unable to do anything else, astonished at the fact that the other cared enough to listen.

And The Flower Knight always listened; no matter how silly the anecdote, how empty the facts, how mindless the comments. He stood as his usual imposing self, quiet and still; but his eyes glowed with interest, a type of attention so vivid it cancelled out any outside noise. Isadore oscillated between admiring it back and avoiding it completely; he was helpless before it. The words flowed out of his mouth like a waterfall after heavy rain.

It was then he realized how little he actually talked to the rest – he spent a lot of time listening, engaging with their mindless banter out of a sense of social obligation, but he never felt inspired enough to truly join in, or actually share his thoughts. He saw no reason to participate, no use in telling his story to men who have lived through just as much, in a fashion just as similar. He felt more comfortable nodding from afar, part of the circle only in presence, but not in spirit; he told himself it was fun enough.

But with Dale, it was different than with anyone else he’d met. For the first time in his life, he ran the risk of being called “talkative”. He spoke of the campaigns he’d been a part of in the past, the knights he’d helped, the causes they’d followed. He talked about the sights he’d seen, and how he’d never ventured so far north before, and the many differences between his current party and his past one. The knight prompted him with questions, sure enough, but he found it impossibly easy to carry on with a subject after he’d gotten himself started. He found it even more absurd how attentively Dale listened to every word he said.

The other men had stopped asking about the fighter for a while, probably having figured that the squire would never be able to give them all the information they craved for. Isadore was grateful for that; he wouldn’t know what else to say on the matter now that he was the one doing most of the talking. He also found that there would be less time available for such conversations, seeing how he now spent more and more of his day in the company of The Flower Knight.

Isadore was even more grateful for that.

It was around then that the dreams started.

~

A girl, standing in a field. It was bright, but not too much so; the surrounding trees filtered most of the light. She stood between them, among them, as if she’d always been. Isadore couldn’t tell for how long he’d been staring.

She smiled, but not with her face; it came to him like a memory, truth that had been taught to him even before he could remember, a story he only now recalled. Her eyes shimmered dark, just like her hair, shadow that hadn’t seen sunlight in ages, and that would choose to keep it so. They were happy to see him.

Isadore’s body ached with exhaustion, as if he’d traveled great lengths to reach her. She’d invited him, invited herself in; he’d let her in. The pain was actually hers. She’d been waiting her whole life, which was shorter than his, but carried ten times the weight; there was so much, a burden so immensurable, felt only by those who’d lived more than they should have. It crushed his chest, flooded his eyes. He couldn’t breathe.

Isadore woke up in a jolt, his lungs poisoned by a scream he’d never let out, a cry that died in his throat. He sat up, slowly breathing in and out, counting each movement, his body rocking along. He did so until the sun rose up in the horizon, even if it took a few hours – he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else. The visions clung to his brain like moss to a rock, lichen to bark. He pretended not to see them.

He didn’t tell anyone about his dream; he just wanted to forget about it as soon as possible. Nightmares weren’t exactly unusual, and he found there was little to gain by discussing them. All he could do was hope for more tranquil nights in the future.

And sure enough, they came – but even their presence was limited.

The same girl, surrounded by the forest. The same pain, muscle-ripping. Her smile was invisible, persistent – her eyes holding the secret to its resilience. He felt it, barely standing, all strength drained from him; and yet, he didn’t collapse, just as she didn’t. It was sickening, radioactive; survival could only be found in defiance.

He woke up again, his eyes opening wide with such speed that the strain to do so nearly gave him a headache, his jaw hurting from how hard he’d been clenching his teeth. His ears felt cold – the tears he’d cried in the night had pooled near their side, after rolling down the corners of his face. No matter how big the numbers reached as he counted, he couldn’t stop his breath from shaking.

Again, he told no one. There was nothing to tell; not on the second time, and not when two became three, or when three was suddenly seven, or when it was no longer worth keeping track. It was every night now, basically routine at that point: the same girl, the same smile, the same pain.

There were changes, no matter how much Isadore hated the sense of progression. The forest kept on getting darker; he didn’t realize it at first, but eventually it became impossible not to notice. The light that once poured from the sky still tried to do so, but was almost entirely barred by the foliage. Trees grew so close together he thought they couldn’t possibly fit any more units between them, until there were even more on the following night.

Even so, nothing seemed to stop Isadore from seeing the girl. Looking at her was almost like staring at the forest itself, no matter how dense it got – and it always filled him with the same terror, the same agony, night after night.

The feeling, however, didn’t come from the act of seeing her. In fact, he believed if she turned out to be absent, it’d hurt twice as much. Her presence felt natural, even desired; the evil had to come from elsewhere. A deep, overpowering wrong, capable of breaking the soul of even the most powerful fighter – but not hers.

She smiled through it, constant and true, despite her face painting a portrait of absolute impartiality, tricking anyone who were to see it. Whenever he faced it, he was overcome with a wish to smile along, to help her through it; but he knew he lacked the strength to.

He didn’t know how she could take it, but he was certain that he couldn’t. Every night he’d be jolted awake, haunted by the same horrifying vision, the pain lingering in his bones even after escaping the forest, only really fading once the sun appeared – for then he’d be finally free of the threat of going back to sleep.

When night fell down once more, he’d try to delay his slumber for as long as he could, but fatigue would take the best of him sooner or later. There were only so many hours he could avoid resting – but he’d constantly try to break the record.

It showed more than he wished it would.

Several members of the party had expressed their concerns over Isadore’s state, but he’d brush them off, asking them not to mind. The comments eventually stopped, but the looks remained; a side glance, an exchanged nudge, thinking he wouldn’t notice. He knew their intentions were good, they wouldn’t see it if they didn’t care. But there was nothing that they could do for him, or vice versa. He ignored his own decaying state, hoping they would ignore it as well; hoping they would ignore him in general.

Days passed by in a blur, Isadore often being too dizzy to understand the details of what was happening, not really wanting to. He knew the motions by heart, he simply had to follow through them.

Dale knocked him to the ground.

Their training sessions continued, despite Isadore performing even worse now than he had before. He no longer had the strength to pretend he could improve.

However, as he looked up at The Flower Knight, instead of the other’s hand being extended to help him up, it was the tip of his sword that met the squire’s eyes.

“Something troubles you”, said Dale. “It has been, for a while.”

Isadore panted, still unsteady from the knockout, unable to find anything resembling words within his mind. Dale kept his stance.

“What makes you think you can train in this state?” The wrinkle in the knight’s brows increased, his voice carrying the echoes of contained fury. “If we have to stand our ground, how far do you think this will take you?”

The squire shook his head, uncertain. “Forgive me”, he stammered, lowering his eyes. “I’ll do better.”

“You will not”, declared the knight, dry and piercing. “You have not. You can only get sicker with terror, which is what has happened so far.”

Isadore still struggled to catch his breath, quickly realizing he’d been holding it. He choked, as he did when he woke up, only without the sobbing. “I’m sorry”, he said, wondering what the secret was to being unnoticed, to go through life without causing so much trouble.

“This is the kind of stubbornness that could get you killed”, stressed the fighter, staring down at the squire. “How much worse were you going to let it get without speaking up?”

Silence. There was no real answer. Isadore knew how much more terrible it could become, he felt it every night in his dreams; his only hope was that the real world would never reach that point. But then again, if it did, would he have the courage to say anything about it, to acknowledge it? Putting up with it was the only plan he had.

He looked up at the knight, following upwards through the sword pointed at his face, eventually joining in with the black of his gauntlets, which in turn continued into the pattern of his chestpiece; petals as dense as his hair, as dark as his eyes. A symbol crafted for a single man, a single cause. The champion knew the value of his own life and safety – if he were gone, no one else would be able to complete his mission.

That is where the true difference between them lied: Isadore had nothing of the sort. If that sword were to pierce his heart, ripping it apart before his dreams did the same, there would be no one who’d weep.

The weapon, however, was not thrusted forward with a devastating stab, but instead drawn back, placed into its sheath. The space left by it was soon occupied by Dale’s hand, bare after the knight took off his gauntlet, taking the position it was so used to claiming.

“Let me help you”, said the knight; and Isadore knew he meant more than simply pulling him up.

He held on to the fighter’s forearm, feeling himself being lifted. He stood almost weightless on his own feet, his strength depleted after weeks of fatigue. He blinked heavily, slightly taken by a headrush, and realized he hadn’t let go.

Neither had Dale.

“Please”, The Flower Knight said. “I’ve seen the growing horrors of a never-ending strife, the burden that remains long after the first scare, increasing with all following ones.” Isadore was petrified. “The things you must’ve seen, the struggles you’ve endured… You’ve been at it for almost as long as I have.” Dale moved his arm back, with Isadore’s grip sliding towards his wrist, and then to his hand, where the knight laced their fingers together. “Please, let me help you.”

Isadore stared into Dale’s eyes, his very soul struck by the same burning care, the glowing concern he’d become so addicted to. He felt his stomach turning, his guts filled with a sadness so profound it had to be inherent, growing more sickening by the second. How far he’d failed, how terribly he’d fallen in order for his situation to become this twisted; to be cared for by the one person he was supposed to serve. 

The refusal was imminent, necessary; it burned up his throat, as deadly and as heavy as a cannonball. He breathed in, trying to let it out, but he faltered; his shoulders trembled with a shiver, his fingers pressed deeper into the hand that so tenderly held them – he knew he had to undo that subtle embrace, to step away from this madness, to set straight the path he’d dared to make crooked; but he couldn’t.

He felt himself nodding, the gesture so stiff it nearly snapped his neck with every motion, his eyes closing in a boiling mix of defeat and relief. He breathed out sharply, and then back in twice as fast, knowing that any further sighs would be immediately turned to sobbing, the release of a howl that should never see the light of day. 

The Flower Knight did not let go.

~

The girl, standing in a field – though that word was no longer fitting. The foliage had spread so deeply, the greenery so packed together, it felt like three forests stacked into one another. She stood there, between them, among them, for they were her. Isadore perceived every leaf, every fiber, every strand of her black hair, the latter even more so due to the ample shading, no light able to pass through.

She smiled, thankful, invited and inviting; through her eyes, her skin, her breath. She was so glad to see him. He felt it in his veins, pierced and scratched, practically torn open; her pain, her grin, her rebellion. He took it in, like manmade walls being claimed back by vines after the demise of a civilization. 

She stretched out her hand, palm facing up, the movement as slow and precise as saplings grow into trees. Suddenly, a flower sprung as she held it, both as if appearing out of thin air, and as if it had always been there. The petals spread out from the center one by one, circling the delicate shape, a design so intricate it could only exist in the secret mathematics of the earth; the surrounding plants showed no mercy, shading it so deeply it lost all color, no light able to make it appear any less darkened.

The whirring motion stopped, two leaves springing out of the side of the flower’s final design. The girl held it between her thumb and index finger, leaning forward.

A gift.

Isadore lifted his hand, the effort so intense it could drag entire mountain ranges. He held on to the stem, just above the girl’s grip, and attempted to bring it towards him; but as he did, the stalk came along, unraveling infinitely. It continued from the flower as one giant vine, pulling back with a tangled resistance. He forced it near him, attempting to pluck it, but it merely continued stretching onwards, twice as tough. He yanked it away with all the strength in his strained body, but it still wasn’t enough.

Starting from his fingers, Isadore followed the stem with his eyes. It tangled itself around every tree in the forest, spreading across the floor like a matted rug, spinning upwards around the girl, twisting itself around her arm. He pulled at the vine again, and felt a twinge nearly shatter his spine; the vine curled itself through her skin, roots as thin as hair strands. She stood among them, as them; she smiled with her eyes. Looking into them, he saw every tree at once.

Isadore woke up with a scream. He could still feel it, the scratching in his veins, the pulling, the poison, the wrong, wrong, wrong; he choked, he sobbed, holding on to his own head, hiding it between his knees; he bit into his lower lip, trying not to cry.

Dale wrapped his arms around him, rocking back and forth along with him. He ran his fingers across Isadore’s arm, stroking it steadily, with a whispered shhhh. His touch was kind and mending, never excessive. Isadore placed his hand over Dale’s, holding it shakily, slowly grounding himself back into reality.

When his hiccups turned to sighs and his shoulders stopped shaking, he lifted his head and straightened his back, breathing in as deeply as he could. Dale met his eyes in the dark, his stare posing the question of whether the other felt better. When Isadore nodded, Dale guided him back down, brushing the squire’s hair back as he placed his head upon the pillow.

Isadore held on to that hand once more, knowing all too well how unjust their situation was, but finding it nearly impossible not grab it at that point. Dale made no motion to stop him.

The fell asleep again together, waking up with the sun.


	6. Constellations

Isadore’s nightmares came less frequently now, even though they remained present. The scenario brought before his eyes never changed, in the sense that it was still the same girl and the same forest, but there was still that cursed sense of development: the foliage still grew denser, the area still got darker, so much so that the squire wondered how he could still see anything at all. The pain was still a constant, no matter how desperately he wished for it to fade – both for his sake and hers.

And every time he’d be troubled by them, Dale was always there to help him through it.

The squire’s heart continued to ache with how twisted their arrangement was, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful for it. He found that staying awake was no longer a chore, and that sleeping was no longer a threat – and he knew he never would’ve gotten this far without his knight’s support. This was the sort of debt no years of service could repay, not even if they were to live forever.

Each evening, as the rest of the camp prepared to rest, Isadore tried talking it over. He’d thank Dale endlessly for all he’d done, commenting on how much better his situation had gotten – and would then casually question whether this little agreement of theirs was worth continuing. His stomach sunk with every word, for there’d be no answer he’d like to hear: a path of justice would only bring him loneliness, but to carry on with their scheme would mean to keep treading down a path he knew to be corrupt.

Dale’s reply, on the other hand, remained just as constant. He’d briefly acknowledge the squire’s gratitude, saying something about how it was his pleasure to help and how glad he felt that it brought positive results, and then carry on as normal, ending the debate there – making no mention whatsoever of the other’s question.

It was in The Flower Knight’s eyes that Isadore found his real answer, for they glowed just as warm and nurturing – the unspoken permission to keep their bond, to share those moments of protection. It was there, stated loud and clear, in a language that wouldn’t make sense to any other campaign member, and the squire took it in as someone would gasp for air after being forcefully held underwater.

Not only that, he understood that that same permission now extended throughout other hours of the day; in other words, he felt, perhaps for the first time in this entire mission, that he could truly be of service. When he came to The Flower Knight to ask if there was anything he could do, he’d get an actual answer instead of a brief dismissal. He found himself running errands, polishing armor, brandishing flags – familiar territory, tasks he’d been very much used to carry out; they were usually regarded as a given in any basic campaign, but here they came almost as a privilege.

In a way, it really was one. The Flower Knight had managed alone just fine until now, and would continue to do so if necessary – allowing Isadore to help him was a kindness, a favor; yet another extension of the champion’s generosity. How the squire had tricked the man into thinking he was deserving of it was beyond him, but he knew that it could be taken away from him just as quickly.

The intensity of this awareness never diminished, no matter how many days passed – more than enough for any new situation to fall into normalcy, but in this case he knew it never would. He thought about it with every calculated movement, every courtesy, every task he so diligently performed; how it was everything he wanted, and how he could lose it at any instant if the knight’s spirits came to change – lost in gratitude so wild it felt almost like its own reward, while at the same time demanding more and more from his spirit. It was almost spiteful, the way he wished to be ordered around; he hated how much he needed it in order to feel complete.

Sometimes, he could swear it was as if Dale knew it. He saw no other reason for The Flower Knight to open himself like that. He had to understand how much this meant to the squire – or why else would he do it?

That was one answer the champion’s eyes refused to show; but Isadore grew better at reading them with each passing week. Staring into them was like gazing at the midnight sky – infinite, dark, far beyond the reach of men. A sight so boundless in its nothingness one would assume it to be empty; except for wise, crazed scholars preaching about how much it carried, knowing they’d never be able to explore it. Its depths were so immeasurable, its mysteries so incomprehensible, it was impossible not to get lost. 

Now, however, where once was only void, Isadore began to find constellations. He charted them with his heart, engraving them into his mind, basking in their twinkling glow. He was happy to follow them, whether they pointed towards safety or danger, for he knew he’d find a home in both, as long as they stood under the same sky. It was a language he never expected to be able to understand, especially with how it had to be self-taught; but now that he knew it, he didn’t want to speak any other.

It lied within the smallest twitches, the minuscule tweaks in the glow of those beacons that guided him; how he could tell, from looks alone, when the knight wished to be left alone and when he was willing to talk, whether he was growing weary or ecstatic, eager or impatient. Isadore rejoiced every time he noticed those changes, especially when they were positively triggered by him – he could read the knight like nobody else could.

Was it petty, to revel over such a thing? To consider it a victory, even if there was no game at all in the first place? To think back to those moments throughout the day, those instances of understanding, of being in the same page of a book no one else was allowed to read? They took over his soul with such a force he struggled greatly to subdue them, telling himself it was wrong to fall for such nonsense – but never completely erasing the feeling; instead, he merely stored it in a forgotten nook of his core, promising himself to never access it again, and breaking that promise time and time again.

Even with all this secluded celebration, he knew it was little more than a farce. Sure, he could read Dale better than anyone else in that camp, but that didn’t mean he truly understood the nature of The Flower Knight. There were still depths so unreachable within him that the squire figured would never see the light of day, or at least not by his hands. The real extent of his eyes remained just as impenetrable as his armor, shining just as dark.

As for his own being, he felt as shallow as a puddle. Nothing about it was worth hiding, for it wasn’t worth exploring in the first place – he couldn’t even call himself an open book, for there wouldn’t be enough text to warrant such a complex format. Whatever essence there was to be discovered, Dale must’ve unraveled it completely during their first conversation, and from then on nothing new was added.

Isadore hated being noticed. He knew that whatever people saw disappointed all expectations, past and present. He carried no extraordinary features, no real cause dictated his actions; he was more than happy to blend in, if only it meant he could be useful from the shadows. That is where he always seemed to find his peace.

However, under The Flower Knight’s company, he could finally start to understand the appeal of being seen – by the right person, at least. He was easy to figure out, but he didn’t mind being read, as long as he trusted the person doing the investigation. He knew he would never bring enough to the table to be entertaining for long, but if whatever spark he provided was considered worthy of attention for even half a second, he would be thrilled. 

Whenever Dale looked at him, the joy he felt from being perceived nearly lifted him from the ground. Being able to take part in such an amazing life came to him almost as a blessing, more than he’d ever felt while following other campaigns.

And whenever Dale held him, he felt his entire body dissipate into nothingness – his existence could end right then and there, and there’d be nothing wrong with that, for he’d found his peace. Under the knight’s healing touch, he felt more like himself than any words could express, than any bodies could carry.

He’d give himself entirely to those moments, if he could; become nothing more than a feeling, a notion, the vague yet undeniable sense of home.

No matter how many secrets he knew he’d never understand, the depths he’d never get to explore; even with all those barriers, he’d be happy for as long as the two could share those moments. And every time The Flower Knight granted his silent permission for this arrangement to carry on, Isadore felt himself taking one step closer to not holding anything back.


	7. A knight of flowers

The battle raged around them, as fierce as many others, as important as they all tend to be. Isadore wished he could say he was used to it at this point, but it wouldn’t be fair to the truth. No matter how repetitive the motions, or how meaningless the cause felt to him, every fight felt like its own unique event, even though it’d all mesh together in his memory as soon as it was over. 

The campaign had run into its fair share of enemies throughout their journey, even more than on Isadore’s previous travels – but then again, everything about this particular group seemed to happen on a much bigger scale. If there was any doubt left regarding the importance of the artifact the king was pursuing, the sheer number of opposing factions seemingly searching for the same relic should put an end to it.

As unfamiliar as the idea came to him, Isadore found himself feeling rather confident in joining the others on the battlefield. Although he was always knocked down by Dale during training, the rest of the fighters he encountered fell way below the champion’s level – his failures against the most overskilled of knights proved to be easy victories against the regular mass, and the squire saw himself in the position of the one who knocked others over instead of the other way around.

Even so, he’d never be a worthy adversary of The Flower Knight – and neither was anyone else.

From a distance, he spotted Dale every now and then. Even amongst the chaos of the battle, the knight’s skills outshined all of those around him, always leaving him as the last man standing, an unstoppable phenomenon. His black armor glistened under the cloudy sky, making him almost impossible to miss; an obsidian crystal in a pile of gravel. That vision never failed to fill Isadore’s soul with an immeasurable sense of awe, inspiration that would never come to him otherwise.

As he glanced upon his knight once again, however, he caught sight of a shadowy figure moving from behind, drifting around the corner of his vision, orbiting the center of the fight like a vulture. He carried a thin blade on his hand, and a calculating look on his eyes. Nobody else seemed to notice him, the others being distracted by The Flower Knight’s outstanding moves, and the latter finding himself too busy with the other surrounding fighters. 

The man circled, and he sneaked, and he waited.

Dale swirled his torso to the side, his feet planted steadily on the ground, bending his body to follow the heavy strike of his sword, which clashed against another fighter’s weapon, sending them stumbling back. Suddenly, the man jumped from behind the champion, burying the stiletto at the thin gap directly below Dale’s chestpiece.

Isadore felt a chill running through his spine, his throat closing up – he’d seen this type of blow before, the force and precision strong enough to break through any chain-link, stabbing directly through the skin. The sort of wound that could knock back any fighter, incapacitate even the best of knights.

However, The Flower Knight stood unfazed. Isadore jittered. Could the man have missed? No, he definitely saw him strike, he knew it’d been successful; but it rendered no consequence. Even the man seemed confused, freezing on the spot – and being immediately knocked down by the champion. 

The squire turned his attention back to his own surroundings, not knowing exactly what to think of what he’d just witnessed, and finding that he didn’t have much time to spare trying to figure it out either. Though the intensity of the battle was dwindling, with his side of the story once again emerging as the victorious one, the fighting wasn’t exactly over.

Surely enough, his campaign seemed to win, which also didn’t come as a novelty; to that, at least, he could say he was starting to get a little used to, as conceited as it seemed. They all had The Flower Knight to thank for that, no matter how much the rest helped.

As the rest of the fighters picked themselves up, gathering their peers and whatever enemies had survived, Isadore looked around for Dale. The scenes of the combat were just now resurfacing in his memory, allowing him to try to understand what had just happened. 

No one should’ve been able to withstand a blow like that, even within the adrenaline-filled context of the struggle. The fact that The Flower Knight didn’t seem even the least taken aback by that strike didn’t come entirely as a surprise, for his prowess apparently had no limits, but whatever consequences he didn’t suffer then were certainly haunting him now.

Isadore followed the trail toward the champion’s tent. The fighter must’ve retired pretty soon after the conflict was over, for no one had really seen him leave. This wasn’t unusual behavior per se – the knight had previously expressed his wishes to be left alone after any events like that, which matched his general isolated nature. Seeking him now would technically be defying his orders, but the squire knew from experience that anyone who’d gone through what The Flower Knight just had would be in need of assistance. 

“Dale?”, he sounded, stepping into the canopy, lifting his eyes towards its center – and the sight presented before him struck him with power so great it made time stop.

In the middle of the canvas stood the knight, having already removed his armor and the upper part of his garments, his chest bare against the grey afternoon, the open wound on its side, just as his torso bent into the hip. The skin slashed and wrecked, invaded in ways it never should be, a scene all too common in a life of chivalry.

But instead of blood, Isadore saw flowers.

Daisies, forget-me-nots, clovers, gushing out amidst a slew of vines, tangled up in a spilling braided mess, pollen specs fluttering with the flow, gliding to the floor, resting among heavy carnations and peonies, lilies and zinnias, countless other specimens that could fill an entire ecosystem. They cascaded from his skin, vibrant and living, blooming so vividly they could almost burst.

Dale’s hands hovered helplessly near the wound, frozen in surprise, filled to the brim with the same greenery, petals spilling out like heavy drops, vines dangling like squandered guts. As his eyes met the squire’s, they had nothing left to say – no words could compete with the contents that already rushed out.

Isadore suffocated, petrified. The colors nearly blinded him, the perfume flooded his lungs – the shameless abundance of life, exhaling from every fiber and stem, making his own existence seem insignificant by comparison. There it was, the same excess, the same nausea, the same wrong that plagued his sleep, stirring up terror so primordial it lied too deep for humans to access. 

Dale stared back.

The squire felt the tears rising up to his eyes, but he blinked them away before they even got a chance to roll down. He took a heavy step forward, the movement imbued with such strain as if it defied natural barriers; then he took another one, and yet another, and with each step it got a little easier, until it was no effort at all. He stood in front of the knight, holding on to the side of his arm and guiding him towards a nearby stool, then taking the other’s hands and placing them upon his wound, keeping it pressed; some lilac petals escaped through the gaps between his fingers, but it was nothing compared to before.

Isadore reached out for some bandages, kneeling besides the fighter as he rolled them up around his hand, and then swiftly applying the bundle where Dale had been pushing, keeping it there until the vines stopped creeping out from the edges. He then changed it to another bundle, and wrapped it tight around the knight’s waist using more of the fabric. 

The fallen petals shined around them, a reminder of what had just been contained. The squire lifted his gaze towards Dale’s, whose eyes posed a question that words would never be able to express.

Isadore shook his head in response. No, he wouldn’t tell a soul.

The knight blinked once, letting out a heavy breath, and then closed his eyes again, wrapping his arms around his squire and bringing him in towards his chest. Isadore could hear him, could really hear him, the sound of his heaving sobs echoing silently against the leaves scattered inside him, the distant pulsing of his heartbeat, the glow that resided in every cell. 

He hugged back.


	8. Discovery

“Does it hurt?”, asked Isadore, running his fingers along the palm of Dale’s hand, their arms raised slightly above their lying bodies, locked together in a tight embrace. It was impossible to spend their nights in any other way, the squire found. Proximity was the only thing that could bring a feeling of safety.

“Not much”, Dale answered, his voice echoing through Isadore’s entire body; the latter’s head rested right below the knight’s chin, settled in the curve of his neck, just as his chest began. “Sometimes, I can feel the vines shifting inside me.”

“That sounds straining”, he commented. Dale’s skin felt so soft against his fingers, like the petals of a rose – but he somehow knew the curse had nothing to do with it. 

“One gets used to it”. Dale spoke so low it was nearly a whisper, as if the words were afraid to come out; or because they knew they only needed to be heard by the person closest to their origin. Isadore took them in like oxygen, thankful for every instance, immediately craving the next ones.

He’d been asking such questions for a while – delicately, and slowly still. They weren’t meant to appease his curiosity as much as they served for invitations for Dale to discuss his condition, should he want to. Whenever Isadore thought back to The Flower Knight’s curse, his mind was flooded by the haunting visions from back when he first found out; the bursting hue of the petals, endless streams of life, vines of a green so dense they felt like an entire meadow was weaved into string. They still made his blood run cold, his heart beat erratically. So much growth, so much blooming, so much wrong.

However, deep down, what ached twice as painfully within his chest was not the twisted nature of the curse, but instead how terrible it was that the knight had had to endure it alone. If anything, the squire wanted to establish himself as a confidant, someone who the fighter could trust; a listener. He knew nothing of the pain of curses, but he understood solitude all too well.

Dale’s responses were short, but meaningful. Each word was loaded, heavy with the weight of a haunted lifetime, phantoms that forever crushed his spirit. They were timid, but they were heard, every single one of them; Isadore made sure of that. No sigh would go unacknowledged, no comment would be left in silence. They were usually prompted by a question, but they were constant, and the squire promised to be there for as long as they came. He’d learned some things, while others remained a mystery. Isadore didn’t mind. He was just glad Dale trusted him enough to share anything at all.

It’d started a few years ago, according to the knight. How or why, on the other hand, were facts that remained concealed. The squire asked if that was why the fighter had gone rogue in the past, and the latter said that yes; the curse had put all other matters on hold. All he sought for was a cure. Isadore had tried asking why the champion had joined this current campaign, but that seemed to be a door that wasn’t ready to be opened.

The full effects of the curse itself were only half-understood. There was the clear aspect of the flowers, taking over the person’s insides, but there was also how his most recent battle wound healed exceptionally fast. It was gone in a matter of days, leaving a faded scar where the gash once stood. There were others, running several lines across his body; his legs, his back, a slash on his shoulder, one on his left palm, another on his thigh; all tracing the remains of previous journeys, the paths he’d once taken. Dale said they’d healed just as fast.

There was no limit to how long he could leave the wounds exposed for. The flowers just kept on coming, he said, until at some point they stopped by themselves. The damage to the skin didn’t actually hurt; he rarely felt the blows even striking him. It all fell under the same constant discomfort, aching so generalized he was almost growing numb to it. There was no room for abrupt changes. No one could harm him more than the curse already did.

Isadore had risked asking if that meant he was unable to die. “Impossible to kill”, was Dale’s answer, “but far from immortal”.

There was always a point in which the knight would shut himself off, refusing to talk any more. Again, Isadore didn’t mind. All he wanted was for Dale to grow comfortable with sharing – but he was more than fine with him not saying anything. They’d still lie together, fall asleep together; a blessing, all things considered.

Isadore had figured this moment had arrived, given Dale’s current silence – which is why he was caught so off guard by the knight’s question.

“Do you know what is the true nature of the relic we seek?”

“Ah?”, sounded Isadore, blinking back into the present. “Not really”, he said, thinking back to all the stories he’d heard. There were common threads connecting them, sure, but nothing concrete enough to build a strong guess.

“It’s a crystal chalice”, explained the knight, his voice carrying a concealed distance, a coldness he probably didn’t mean to let out, “capable of breaking any curse, if one drinks from it.”

Isadore looked up towards where Dale’s eyes should be; and even if he couldn’t see them, he knew just how frigid their stare was. He felt a shiver run through his spine. Something told him the knight’s theory wasn’t like the others; this was the account of a man who knew exactly what he was talking about.

There was silence, and it was heavy. Ever since his early attempts upon his arrival at camp, he hadn’t tried to understand what motivated the campaign. He’d made his peace with it, as he had with all other groups he’d been a part of – it never actually mattered to him. He followed his knights wherever it was necessary, feeling glad that they were passionate enough about the cause to pursue it, but never sharing the same drive. This case was no exception. It was curious how no one seemed to be fully aware of the relic’s true capacities, but sometimes the mere concept of power was enough to drag entire squads through the most dangerous of lands.

He hadn’t pressed Dale for more details either. The Flower Knight had always carried a bit of a higher status, being the king’s favorite champion, but it didn’t matter all that much to the squire. He’d never use Dale to get insight on secret information; it wasn’t what he cared about. As for the knight himself, he never appeared keen on sharing, but that was just his way. In terms of his motivation, he did seem more driven than the rest of the men, but Isadore had always assumed it came from the honor in his code, the inherent loyalty in the man’s office.

But this was the exact opposite.

The information the knight has just shared had nothing to do with the campaign.

“Day…”, Isadore started. He felt the knight’s body grow tense against his own. “Would you really do it?”, he asked in the softest tone he could muster, muted even further by caution and fear. “Betray your order, betray your king?”

“The king is a fool”, blurted Dale, his voice more piercing than any stroke of a sword. “He knows nothing”, declared the knight, moving his hand away from Isadore’s in a restless jolt. “The relic won’t bring back what he’s lost, he wouldn’t even have a use for it.”

Isadore calculated every breath, every blink, as if the slightest movement could trigger the explosion clearly building up on Dale’s spirit. He’d never seen his knight so shaken – but he understood enough about him to see that the feelings had always been there. He could only imagine how crushing it must be to constantly bury them.

The Flower Knight sighed, though it didn’t make his muscles feel any less contrived. “It wouldn’t be forever.” Isadore stayed silent. “I might even return it to him after I’m done.”

“Even if it costs you his trust?”

“His trust is worthless to me.” Isadore could feel the bitterness in that response. It carried the same determination he knew the knight always had, but took it to a much darker place.

“…Has this always been your plan?”, he asked, although he already knew the answer. Still, the fighter confirmed it with a single nod.

Isadore stood still, realizing that the true moment for silence had arrived. He wouldn’t be able to break it even if he wanted to; he was speechless, staring into nothingness. Somehow, he knew Dale’s eyes were just as unfocused. The knight’s body remained stiff against his, but in that rigidness there was no distance – despite its supposedly unwelcoming disposition, nothing about it implied Isadore should leave. Instead, it created the exact opposite idea.

The squire had his arm wrapped around the fighter’s chest, holding it as tight as the bandages that once stopped the flowers from gushing out. The curse had turned human limits into strangers. Pain, blood, death, all of it was blurred, buried, overridden. The very things Isadore treated as constants, the elements that he’d seen a thousand times and was sure he’d continue to deal with throughout the course of his profession; They now felt so foreign, so wavering.

He’d never found a calling, even after all those years. He was great at following protocol, turning his help into something indispensable, but it wasn’t done for him. He placed anyone above himself, for he knew he was only worthy while he was wanted. He drew comfort from knowing how to make himself necessary, working with the unchanging variables that popped up in each and every campaign. To have them suddenly be questionable was enough to make his entire foundation come crashing down.

Dale, on the other hand, seemed to be guided by a moral core so unshakeable that even the destruction of such paradigms only gave more certainty to his quest. He’d abandon all allegiances, all ties, all bonds if it meant he’d reach his end goal. If he ever found himself alone, he’d undoubtedly take solace in the fact that it was his choice to remain so, and not a cruel trick of fate. His feelings served only the practicality of his mission, one which was so personal it couldn’t even be distressed by the judgement from others.

Each breath the knight took flowed through Isadore’s arms, resounding through his skin, guiding his heart in a song so particular and binding he knew it’d never dance to any other. He’d gladly be overtaken by it, give is body to the wilderness that ran within his knight, to be engulfed by those vines with a grip so tight he’d stop breathing – for he’d breathe through them, as them. He was Dale’s, so completely Dale’s, every part of himself; and even after all groundings crumbled and all realities were shifted, this would forever be the one truth that remained.

Lying together, in synchrony so unmatched, Isadore knew that was all he wished to be.

For the first time in his entire life, Isadore had found a cause worth following.


	9. To break a curse

Such thoughts followed Isadore on every moment of his day.

The campaign moved closer and closer to its final destination. The peaks of the mountains could already be seen by the end of the trails. It wouldn’t be long until the relic was reached, and the party could commence their successful return. The anticipation grew on the squire’s chest, but not for the same glorious reasons it did for the rest of the men. He cared not for the triumph of the king; in fact, he schemed against it.

The Flower Knight had his own secret plans regarding the retrieval of the chalice. Isadore didn’t know the full details, and wouldn’t press the other to share them – but he already knew he’d support them. Dale wasn’t one for flare; he’d probably do it discretely, in the quiet of the night. The monarch already trusted him, so no one would question if he decided to keep the chalice under his possession. No one would see it coming.

But even if they did, Isadore was prepared to fight. No one could take the champion down, as had been proved through several hostile encounters throughout the journey; and the squire had the added advantage of training with said fighter, which put him a step ahead of the rest, whether through skill alone or the power of intimidation. He couldn’t stand conflict, but he’d clash if necessary.

In some scenarios, he didn’t win. Maybe he was outnumbered, maybe he was outmatched; either way, he died in battle, blade still clutched in his hand, his thoughts fading to void. Dale would be long gone by then; the squire had held them off, and they’d never catch up. He’d live on as memory, in gratitude.

Other times, however, he didn’t die – he fought, and he won, and he survived; they both did. They escaped together, to lands unknown, never to return. The curse would be broken, and the relic would be disposed of. Probably hidden, rumors spreading about its new location, new campaigns launched to find it. It’d be out of their hands, which now shared much nobler purposes. Living, entangled, together.

Those were the scenes that played in his head, stretching into narratives much more fantastic than all others he’d heard. It was the one story he wished to remember, and to be remembered as. The one cause he was willing to fight for, to die for – anything, as long as it could be true. His calling, his driving force, his very existence; the voice that sang louder than all others, each and every time he looked into Dale’s eyes.

He wondered if this is what he’d been missing, if this is what the others felt. He knew the first to be true, but the latter had to be wrong. No other member of any campaign he’d seen had ever felt the same way he did now, no matter how dedicated they were to their own causes. The spirit that guided him was stronger than any army, reached farther than any kingdom.

The idea of Dale’s curse still haunted him. The image of his knight standing so defenseless, the flowers gushing out of his skin, hues so damned in their vibrancy; it still sent a chill through his skin, a terribleness so unnatural it twisted his bones. He’d always known he’d do anything to stop it, but only now the full effects of that promise seemed to dawn on him.

Meanwhile, he still had the same dreams, and they were still just as disturbing. He’d never stopped having them – Dale had just helped him cope with them, even if Isadore never shared their contents. And yet, at night, there she was: the same girl, the same forest, the same pain. The smile that shined through her eyes, the rebellion, the resilience of it all. He felt her ache and exhaustion, her efforts, her gladness; he shared them, every bit of it. The forest grew darker around them, within them.

It didn’t take him long to see the connection, although he had yet to understand it. The overpowering nature crushing the human spirit, the painful entanglement of greenery, the fight to survive through it; the girl and the knight suffered from the same core condition, curses of the same essence. The cases weren’t identical, but they were similar enough to be significant; that, at least, he could confirm.

But then there was the matter of her identity: no matter how familiar she seemed or how close he felt to her, the fact still stood that Isadore had never seen that girl in his life – not even in previous dreams. Until the campaign, he’d never notice her face among a crowd, nor guess that it would ever become relevant to him. He wasn’t even sure if she was real, or if anyone of her likeness could be found outside of slumber; but he couldn’t disprove it either.

However, after so many weeks of seeing her, what stood out the most wasn’t the mystery of her person, but how much she reminded him of The Flower Knight. The same dark hair, as if woven from the shade itself; the same fair skin, sprinkled with dots and moles, constellations too sacred to be charted; the same eyes, neutral to the uninitiated, able to hold more complexity than the entire human capacity for speech. They were two flowers grown from the same bush, carrying as much beauty in how they were similar than in how particularly their own petals spiraled.

The progress of his dreams seemed unrelated to whatever happened in reality; his relationship with her never changed, despite how increasingly closer he got to The Flower Knight – but maybe it was because he’d already felt the closest to her from the very beginning. The forest and the pain were there months before he became aware of the curse, and they hadn’t changed at all now that he knew.

Dale’s voice kept echoing in his brain. I can feel the vines shifting inside me, he said. He’d spoken of the pain before; was it like what the girl felt? Isadore constantly thought back to the way it hurt, how close his knees came to caving in, how every nerve on his body screamed as he attempted to pull at the vine he’d been handed – but to him, it was just a memory. He didn’t have to carry it, he’d never have to explain it. He knew it only as second-hand, as fear, as a threat; never as reality. One gets used to it, he’d said, but was it true? Isadore could never see himself coping with it. He’d always been weak. He trembled at the thought of having to live with it; but his knight already had to.

He wished he could talk to the girl about it. She’d know what to do, she was so good at surviving! He wasn’t much help; he wasn’t any help at all. He could never carry such weight on his shoulders. He stared into her eyes, trying his best to smile back, feeling every crushing second of failure drag by, and he begged for an answer. A hint, a command he could follow, anything – she was the only one who could help him.

But the girl simply smiled, her face completely blank. 

Sometimes, he figured she was the answer herself; her capacity to keep holding on was the advice she had to offer, an order for him to do the same. This always led to the conclusion that he was the one who came up with that; she’d never suggested anything of the sort. It was just his way of dealing with her silence – or rather, his inability to reach her. 

As he woke up screaming in terror, the ache still lingering in his bones, he cried not only for the sheer repetition of trauma, but for the fact that he couldn’t find an answer – he didn’t know how to make things better, no matter how much he pleaded.

Dale held him through it regardless.

The scenarios grew even stronger in his head. He even dared to imagine the specifics of what their lives would be like after they eloped – though he’d take those narratives with him to the grave. He wondered what the girl would have to say about them if she knew. Not that he was looking for a second opinion; he simply wanted to share them with someone who understood. He knew she would.

But along with those ideas came others, even twice as dangerous. He’d heard of different relics before the campaign; the legends came from everywhere. A spear that never missed its target, a cloak that made one soar like a bird, a book that adjusted its words according to the reader. There were always a dozen tales about how it changed someone’s life, or of how one had fallen into madness by either seeking or dealing with the artifact. 

Their origins were always a mystery, but they related to other popular beliefs. Kind forest spirits that could grant you the help you needed, evil sorceresses who conjured up terrifying spells, crazed wizards who just wanted to watch the world burn. There were twice as many ways of avoiding them as there were of contacting them, it was said. Any villager could name at least a couple, if asked.

Magic was everywhere, or so it was believed – maybe it really was everywhere, simply because people believed it was. How else to explain luck, hope, religion? How else would one come to terms with all that couldn’t be understood through other means, all concepts that were too big to be explained? Isadore felt so surrounded by the impossible that it had become part of him, the only future he saw.

Until he’d met The Flower Knight, magic was a thing reserved only for what was negative. There just seemed to be a lot more stories on how it’d brought tragedy and curses than there were on changes for the better; there were so many tips on how to evade its effects, or escape before they reached you. They were repeated so often they became public knowledge – rules, almost.

And at that point, a single phrase resounded on Isadore’s mind, sneaking up uninvited upon every moment of silence, standing as the resolution to so many of the narratives he’d conjured up: the idea that a true love’s kiss can break any curse.

On its own, it was merely another theory people believed in, a made-up moral to soothe their worrying hearts, the end to a bedtime fairytale. Within the squire’s context, however, it was almost a threat; an expectation set so high it would crush any life if it wasn’t met – and there was no way it would ever be met. It wasn’t real, just like the rest of the legends. Isadore knew it to be so, and told himself that on every occasion where the phrase jumped again at his thoughts. There was nothing to it. If the solution were that simple, their campaign wouldn’t run into any others, let alone exist.

But the idea carried on regardless.

It’s not that Isadore didn’t believe in curses until he’d seen the fighter’s in action – he was very much afraid of them. He simply had never been so close to one, as far as he could tell. In any case, he tended to ignore the stories told by the villagers, mostly because if he took them seriously, he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep at night. Not that he had been lately either, until Dale started to help him cope with his dreams.

The phrase still echoed in his thoughts. What defined a curse, even? Would his nightmares count as one? More importantly, why did they happen in the first place? He’d never experienced anything of the sort before the campaign – he’d had bad dreams, and was equally unwilling to discuss them with his peers, but they never lingered like that. They never hit him as hard. Even when the subject itself of said dreams was by definition a lot more terrifying, it failed to give him the same sense of doom as his current ones did.

They were about Dale’s curse, somehow, as much as they were about the girl’s – if she were even real. There had to be a reason why Isadore would have those visions, especially now. His connection with The Flower Knight had already made him put so much into perspective; his drive, his passion, the very core of his existence. Nothing else had sparked such feelings, such fervor. What he felt for Dale could barely be put into words.

Couldn’t this have been translated into his dreams, somehow? As if his head had tried to warn him of the storms to come before his heart could even understand them? A subconscious reaction to signs he didn’t know he was picking up, the answer to a mystery that hadn’t been laid out yet. As if a bigger force has tried to warn him about The Flower Knight’s curse.

Then shouldn’t he, of all people, be able to break it?

The true meaning of “curse” was up for discussion, but the concept of true love was never something he dared to question. He knew no better name for what he felt. The comfort and warmth that came from being with Dale went unparalleled, indisputable. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that safe. If his soul was to belong somewhere, it was next to his knight.

If he could make Dale feel even a fraction of the happiness Isadore felt around him, he would feel a sense of accomplishment never achieved before.

It was his mission, as a squire, as a human, to give The Flower Knight the best life he could. In all his scenarios, he succeeded, even at the cost of his life – for the ones where he failed were too painful to imagine. If there was a path laid out for him out there, he was certain it was this one.

And so he thought, and kept on thinking, as his feet guided him towards the champion’s tent after a particularly harsh training session. The knight had hurt his hand, he’d seen it; a trick of the gauntlet, perhaps, a miscalculation. He’d asked to be left alone, as he always did, without using any words at all – he simply retreated back to his refuge, where nobody could see him not bleed. 

Isadore gave him space, despite knowing he’d already crossed that line on the day he first found out about the fighter’s curse. There was no need to hide it from him anymore, but he still respected the champion’s wishes to keep it so, promising himself he’d only overcome that threshold again if given explicit permission to.

The thoughts grew louder in his head, all the words he could no longer ignore. Dangerous ideas, bouncing off his skull like wild birds trapped in a cage, ringing louder than his own racing heartbeat, pounding against his chest. Before he knew it, he was moving, gliding across the field, stepping inside the olive canopy, locking eyes with his one and only.

Dale stared at him, halfway through bandaging his hand, the petals still glowing on the floor around him, barely fallen. His eyes showed no surprise, only trust – and thankfulness, Isadore wanted to believe, but silenced that thought before it could grow any further. All his energy was focused on one single assumption, the idea that had caused that whole turmoil in the first place.

He took Dale’s hand into his own, feeling the vines flutter beneath the fabric, running more untamed than in any jungle. They pulsed in a rhythm so fast it was almost a current, matching his own racing nerves – but his fingers stayed still. They pulled the fighter closer, as the squire leaned in, and their beating hearts danced in synchrony as their lips met.

Isadore waited for a change.

Nothing.

His fingers still felt the same erratic flow, the same wilderness buzzing. Under those bandages, an entire ecosystem still grew, the flowers barely kept from spilling.

Agony.

He took a step back, his mind so filled with guilt and reprehension it would soon make his skull crack open. How dare he believe he could ever bring such change, such blessings – he was nothing. Desperately clinging on to delusions in order to further his selfish means. There was never any hope, only recklessness. No thought to consequence, no power, no worth. Nothing at all.

And then Dale kissed him back.

Advancing where the other had retreated, the knight cancelled out the space between them, bringing their bodies together once more, closer than they’d ever been. He tangled his fingers around Isadore’s, pressing the bandages tightly between their palms, reaching out with his other hand and grasping at the golden strands of his hair, holding on to them as a dying man clings to his last breath.

Isadore’s thought dissipated into thin air, his mind forgetting even how to conjure them up in the first place – there was no space left. His body reverted into a state before words, before ideas, where there was only spirit and the light that guided it, where language was the knight’s touch running through his skin, Dale’s lips against his.

Isadore did not hold back.


	10. To save

The thrill of that moment lasted throughout all evening, stretching into the night, outshining the very light of the sun from the following morning. They’d fallen asleep together, the squire and his knight, as they’d done many times before, but now with a newfound closeness, limits they’d never though they’d cross – and what a blessing it was to cross them. Isadore was sure his body had been formed the way it was just so it could fit into Dale’s arms; the only place it wished to rest upon.

However, with the following hours, the disgust returned like mist; creeping in, chilling, unannounced, slowly building up until there is nothing left of the previous view.

The squire had failed, no matter how one looked at it – be it his inability to lift The Flower Knight’s curse, or the conviction that he’d be capable of doing it at all. How insane to believe in such urban legends, popular tales that even children would be skeptical of. There was a reason why magic was brought up a lot more often concerning tragedy than improvement, why people couldn’t brush it away simply with good intentions. 

How idiotic to think his love could ever cause any good.

What positive impact had he even brought to Dale’s life in the span of time they’d known each other for? He had little to add in battle, even less to offer as advice, especially to someone with his condition. Any other squire would’ve sufficed – or none at all, seeing how well the knight had been managing without one.

The rest of the men still deemed the champion impossible to read; Isadore knew that to be untrue. He’d learned the language, as best as he could. He knew of the knight’s inherent warmth and worry, the care he wouldn’t dare to let transpire to anyone else. He’d seen it, and he’d done his best to reciprocate, but he couldn’t erase the idea that it was misguided. What a shame it was to waste such wonder on someone like him.

They had shared many, many more kisses after that first incident, and each kiss cleared a fraction of Isadore’s mind – like the sun seeping in through the cracks, breaking through the fog; but it’d soon get cloudy again. It seemed almost inevitable. The squire wrapped Dale’s arms around himself, running his fingers through the other’s dense black hair, knowing that safety couldn’t last forever. He was better off on his fabricated scenarios, fighting as his knight escaped. At least there he had a chance of success.

~

The struggle that unfolded as the campaign ran into another enemy group was significantly quicker than the rest; they were unprepared, and fought with a lot more rage than strategy, which can only get one so far. Isadore felt almost relieved by how quickly the others were defeated; it was the final stretch of the journey, and he hoped that every battle would be their last.

He saw Dale across the field, regaining his breath after another impressive series of victories. Even within an encounter of such a smaller scale, he still managed to excel. The squire made his way towards him, despite knowing that the fighter usually chose to be alone after such a clash – now it just seemed like another line they’d crossed. There was no need for isolation.

And as he came closer, he saw it. A single man, rushing towards the knight, his sword raised in an anticipated strike.

The fight was not over.

The squire let out a cry, a scream coming deep from his guts, the sound of emotions he couldn’t even name, as he positioned himself between The Flower Knight and the attacker with a movement swifter than wind. His body moved almost entirely out of his control, ruled by instinct and anxiety, fury and fear.

He slashed the man’s throat, tossing the other’s body stumbling into the grass. His hands shook slightly as he stared at the damage, slowly taking in the past few seconds. He sighed.

Turning to Dale, he attempted to smile, but the action was cut short upon catching the other’s eyes: they stared not at Isadore, but instead at his right sleeve.

The man had pierced through the leather of his armor before being defeated. Blood gushed out from the wound.

Isadore stepped back, his knees starting to give in. His breathing became erratic, both excessive and insufficient. The red, the flowing, he couldn’t – he’d trained his whole life to handle it, despite his aversion. On others, it was fine, it was manageable. But not with himself. He faltered. His arms became numb, letting go of the weapon. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel anything.

His vision went black.

Dale caught him before he hit the ground.

~

The Flower Knight wrapped the bandage around Isadore’s arm, his steady fingers working with impossible precision; he was better at this than Isadore would ever be. The latter couldn’t help but wonder whether that skill had come from a natural sort of vocation or a forced one; the act of the knight having to patch himself up so many times and for so long that he’d perfected it into an art. 

The question echoed on Isadore’s head, making him switch between one possibility and the other with each motion Dale performed – such a gentle touch could not be fabricated, could it? He felt as if there weren’t enough eternities in the universe one could practice for in order to reach the man’s level. He pondered about it, choosing to be lost in thought instead of facing his reality; he kept his face was turned to the side, as even the suggestion of the sight where his blood once gushed from was enough to make him queasy. 

Dale kneeled in front of the chair Isadore sat on, indicating he was done. The knight looked up, meeting the squire’s eyes for a moment, as the other shifted to the side as to face him, only for the latter to turn away shortly after. 

“I feel so foolish”, he lamented, running his fingers through the bandages.

The man placed a hand on Isadore’s cheek, gently guiding his head forward once more. “You saved my life”, he said, stroking the corner of the squire’s face with his thumb, shooting Isadore a stare so loaded with sentiment it hit his chest like a battering ram.

“Did I?”, said Isadore, chuckling sadly. He took Dale’s hand into his own, pressing it against his face for a second, only to pull it away and look again to the corner. “I thought you couldn’t be killed”. He stood up, letting go of the other’s touch, taking a step forward.

Dale moved immediately, getting up on his own feet and holding Isadore’s arm, pulling himself closer. “Doesn’t mean I cannot die”, he cried, once again placing his right hand upon Isadore’s head, just as it connected to his neck. He shifted to the side, meeting the other’s line of sight, precisely as Isadore himself turned to face him; a mere inch separating their lips.

Isadore heaved, his heart pounding in his chest, his blood rushing to his face – his stomach turning at how unfair this was. How come he got to bleed, when his lover was the one who deserved to? Why was it that his veins flushed red when they were so useless? How could Dale dare to claim Isadore had saved his life, when the only life he’d managed to give his knight was still a cursed one? 

He closed his eyes as Dale mirrored the position of his right hand with his left, holding the other’s head by the base of his neck. Isadore felt as if the rest of his body had disappeared – as if the whole heaviness of his skull was being held up by the knight, almost as a war trophy. He was weightless, drained, emptied; as he should be. He leaned in, summoning whatever vitality he still had left, and kissed Dale with all the weight he still had the audacity of carrying, the space he pretended he had any right to occupy.

Dale kissed him back, gripping Isadore’s hair, running his fingers across his back, bringing their chests even closer together. Isadore held on to the other’s arms, feeling them pulse with every move. How great it was, to be held by a living thing. Dale had more life coursing through his body than the squire could ever dream of having. 

“You saved me”, Dale whispered inbetween breaths, inbetween kisses. “You saved me”, he hushed, again and again, to the point where Isadore couldn’t tell if the other was actually saying it, or if it was just the sound of it looping in his own head, playing with every sigh, every stroke, every beat of his lover’s heart.

He shook his head, or at least thought about doing so. He’d never saved anyone – he was the one who had been saved, even if he didn’t deserve to be; would never deserve to be.

He wrapped his arms around Dale’s back. How great it was, to hold a living thing; how terrible it was, that he was the one who got to bleed instead.


	11. Empty white

The peaks of the mountains were blocked off by clouds, stopping the men from seeing how far they reached. The white of their snow merged with the sky itself, as if the cliffs evaporated into thin air after a certain height. They towered against the campaign like one last wall separating them from their end goal, the last obstacle. Their coldness was palpable through sight alone.

Isadore had fantasized about this moment for weeks now; the final destination, the relic’s hiding spot. The anticipation of what would come next had reached so many levels of anxiety within him that it had now come full circle; he felt strangely calm, almost numb.

The exact details of how Dale would carry out his plan were still a mystery to him, and he wouldn’t dare ask; but he’d imagined enough scenarios to fill an entire generation’s worth of stories, and figured at least one of them would correspond to the path the fighter would soon choose to pursue. As for The Flower Knight, he kept his same stoic expression, eyes flooded with neutrality. No other member of the group would ever suspect his true intentions.

They set camp on the base of the mountain, next to the trails that granted access to its many secrets. The maps that had guided them thus far had a certain vagueness when it came to the true location of the relic, but Dale was certain it was hidden in a cave, and had managed to pinpoint its location within the terrain.

A bit of exploring led the men to the structure in question, close to one of the pathways. The Flower Knight himself guided the search, followed by a few other members of the group. Isadore joined them, despite never being officially invited, but no one seemed opposed to his presence. No matter what happened, he wanted to be there for it.

The rocks curved into a single tunnel, stretching into an aisle that was wide enough for the whole party to walk through, leading into an open stone hall, grey boulders circling the perimeter of its walls. In the very center, a sturdy darkened piece stood, shaped from the same material as the rest, but somehow a bit more polished, as if it had been manmade. Any self-proclaimed adventurer with half an idea on how those things worked could see that this was a prime location for any relic to rest, just waiting to be found.

Except the pedestal was empty.

The sight of that made Isadore’s heart skip a beat, his head growing light with a rush of dread. The absence of a blessing can be more terrifying than the presence of any beast. The party turned around and climbed back to camp empty-handed, exchanging confused comments on whether this was even the right place. Dale stayed silent.

Isadore was unsure of how to proceed, unable to fully process what had just happened. He thought about questioning his knight on the matter, but a single glance upon the other’s eyes showed them to still spark with determination. Of course. This wasn’t the end of their journey, it was merely a step in the wrong direction. There was no reason to give up just yet.

A few more missions into the mountain grounds revealed another cave, its entrance a lot farther from the trails and incredibly discreet, nearly hidden among the surrounding rocks. The gap was incredibly narrow, but it was still possible to sneak through with a little bit of effort.

Dale still led the search, and less people accompanied this time, given the nature of the place they had to search. This time, Isadore waited outside, certain that The Flower Knight could singlehandedly take down all the men that followed him, while he would just clutter up the limited space.

The party returned after a few hours, revealing that the cave actually stretched on into a series of narrow corridors, forming a maze that constantly split upon itself, shaping paths like the roots of a tree – all dead ends. Once again, there was nothing to be found. Isadore listened to their discoveries, feeling the blood drain from his face and rush wildly through his heart, which could barely keep up with his nerves. Dale cast a single look at him, reassuring him that nothing had changed. He nodded, breathing in, regaining his ground. They just had to keep looking.

More searching, more revelations. A tunnel in the snow was found, leading into some sort of underground cavern; the ceiling was low, and one had to crouch in order to move through the passageway, but it still led them to nothing. There was a grotto on the side of the hills, the trees arching along with the sunken shape on the stone; one could call it a cave, if they were willing to bend the full extent of the noun’s meaning, but it was just as empty as the rest.

Speculation began. Perhaps the relic’s location wasn’t a cave at all; someone must’ve misunderstood. Maybe it was somewhere else in the region, tucked away in some different kind of formation. Once such concerns reached The Flower Knight, he agreed to expand the full scope of the search. The men spread out through the icy forest, continuing their quest.

Isadore accompanied Dale on such occasions. The latter had ditched the formalities of a larger party, especially given how the rest had agreed to split up in order to cover more ground. They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing with a dull crunch as they treaded through the snow, their breath turning to fog right before their eyes. Sometimes, the squire caught himself almost wishing they never found anything, just so they could keep on sharing moments like these; when they walked together, his heart was finally put at ease.

However, when they returned to camp with nothing to show for the day, seeing every other person in the group stuck in the same situation, Isadore’s chest continued to sink harder each time. At that point, he could no longer tell if it’d be worse to never find anything and live with the weight of that failure, or to actually locate the relic, in which case the built-up shock would paralyze him for good.

The men searched every crack in the trees, every crevice on the rocks, every hole in the ground. They came across plenty of worthy locations – the ruins of an old church, the crystal-embedded walls behind a frozen waterfall, an island in the middle of a frozen lake – but they brought them no results. No matter how deep they ventured or how carefully they searched, no one ever had any good news to share.

The campaign grew restless. It was a suicide mission, said the whispers. They’d freeze to death before they found anything; another group must’ve beaten them to it, there was nothing left for them to do. They’d searched every inch of those mountains, they could draw the maps from memory. They’d endured too much to just die in the next snowstorm.

Isadore flinched whenever he heard such comments. They didn’t know what was at stake, and they never would; as far as they knew, this was still a mission from the king. They were unaware of the dread brought by a curse, or of the determination required to break one. They had nothing to lose by giving up; but for Dale, it could cost him his life. The squire knew they’d never understand – but part of him also knew that they were right. He just wished they weren’t.

Dale had to be aware of how the rest of the men felt. They weren’t exactly subtle in their complaining. In spite of that, however, he kept on searching, and the rest kept on following his lead. Isadore still walked with him, but he knew their days were counted – either because they’d be beaten by the weather, or ambushed by the rest of the party. If The Flower Knight had any second thoughts about what he was getting the campaign into, it did not show.

The fresh fallen snow glowed beneath their feet, sparkling around them like powdered quartz. Isadore couldn’t get his eyes off The Flower Knight’s chestpiece; how it stood in stark contrast with its pale surroundings, as if the universe had lost all color. Even the ashen trunks of the barren trees didn’t come close to that shade of dark. 

The squire had fallen behind a few steps, unable to keep up with Dale’s pace, which seemed practically mechanical in its assurance; so steady and rhythmic it left no space for human sentiment. It was almost otherworldly, just like the black of his gear created a vision that could never have come from that place of bleached elements. That feeling only grew stronger each time Isadore remembered the fighter’s condition – how the other’s veins carried more life than that frozen forest would ever display, blooming in colors so exuberant they’d make the white of the ground fade from memory.

As he amused himself with such thoughts, half lost in terror and admiration, he didn’t see that the knight had halted completely, standing as still as the trunks surrounding him. Isadore reached his side, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, and then stopping the question from being spoken once he laid his eyes on what Dale was staring at.

The woman stood right at the limit of where the fog allowed them to see, the rest of the forest disappearing behind her. Her grey hair flowed in a slight wave until her shoulders, which were wrapped in a dark shawl made of heavy wool. Her arms were slightly crossed, covered by the sleeves of her dress, which looked as sheltering as a blanket, as sturdy as armor. Her face carried a look of tired worry, her strong eyebrows slightly furrowed, her eyes staring straight into one’s heart. It was as if she’d just appeared, but at the same time had always been standing there.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for”, she said. Her voice was low and calm, but surprisingly strong. 

“What do you mean?”, Dale was quick to respond. The squire was still too surprised at her presence to think of anything to say, and he doubted he’d have any courage to argue.

“I’ve seen others come into these woods with the same objective as you”, she said. “I’ve seen that look in your face too many times to count. It never ends the way you hoped it would.”

The Flower Knight hesitated, his shoulders growing tense. Isadore shifted his weight to the side, leaning closer to him in support. He knew the movement was too slight to make a difference. He didn’t care.

“You’re looking for the relic too, aren’t you?”, the lady continued. “I knew it from the moment your campaign approached these mountains. You are not the first ones to come here.” 

Silence. 

She smiled, blinking slowly and breathing out. “I know this must be hard to learn.” There was concern in her voice, warm enough to melt the snow. Her breath fogged up as she sighed, but the squire couldn’t help but notice her face wasn’t flushed from the cold – it was as if she didn’t even feel it. “Would you like to come inside?”, she asked, gesturing with her shoulder to the mist behind her. “You boys have been out in the snow for so long, I’m sure you could use a cup of tea.” Isadore had never felt so inclined to accept an invitation in his entire life.

“…Who took the relic?”, asked Dale. His tone would’ve sounded rational and in control to any listener, but the squire could tell he was shaken. From the woman’s expression, it seemed she could too.

“No one”, she answered. The knight flinched. “This is merely where it was last seen.”

“Then where is it?”, he inquired. He wasn’t screaming, by any means, but his voice sounded a bit louder than usual – which meant about the same thing, coming from Dale. Isadore almost stepped back.

The woman stared at him, sensing the gravity of his tone. “It isn’t”, she declared. “It has no fixed location.” The champion frowned. “The chalice appears when it is needed, and disappears once it no longer is. It has a mind of its own, and can’t be controlled or kept. There is no practical way of summoning it; it simply senses whether it is desired, and whether the cause is worthy or not. This mountain isn’t it’s home – just the place where it was last found.”

Isadore felt a growing, crushing void where his heart should be, his guts twisting into knots. He was no one to argue with the logic of relics – legends such as these were the soul of every community, the only way magic could be accessible to those without the necessary gifts. He’d heard his fair share of them, and believed in about half of those, though he’d always be reluctant to admit it. However, this was the first time in which he’d seen anyone say it with such authority, such certainty. This wasn’t a legend, it was the truth; and as such, it was one of the most painful ones he’d heard.

Dale stood still.

Isadore looked back at the woman, snow starting to fall from the heavy clouds above. There was something about it, some kind of energy, though he couldn’t tell exactly what its true nature was. Either way, he felt inclined to believe her, as if she lacked the necessary malice to trick them. He couldn’t stop thinking about her invitation – not only because he found himself craving for the comfort of tea and shelter, but because he had no idea where she lived: the men had searched those mountains several times, leaving no path unseen and no rock unturned; and yet, there’d never been any news of a cottage being found, or of such a lady being spotted.

“The relic can’t be found here”, stated Dale, though it was really a question, a request for confirmation.

The woman shook her head, her face grim with understanding. The squire only then noticed the snowflakes merely danced around her, contouring her figure before hitting the floor – never landing on her.

The Flower Knight nodded swiftly, giving her a single yet clear head bow, then turned his back to her and proceeded to walk towards he’d just come from.

Isadore staggered, caught off guard by his sudden movement, watching him leave through the trails. He took a step forward, attempting to follow him, but quickly stopped, casting one last glance at the lady. She smiled as his eyes met hers, a gesture full of sorrow. He couldn’t bring himself to smile back.

The campaign lifted camp on the following morning.


	12. An answer

The voyage back was spent in silence.

The men had little to say about their failure. The disappointment of not finding the relic seemed to have been cancelled out by the relief of leaving the mountainside – there was little glory to be found in a mission that had already been deemed impossible to complete. In a way, it felt almost more responsible to accept there was no way they could win rather than to keep on trying at the risk of their safety.

Isadore understood, reading into their collective quietude. He just could not relate to it.

To him, the lack of success defined him. That mission was Dale’s only shot at lifting his curse, and now there was nothing that could be done. There was the general sense of disappointment in not locating the relic, but to the squire this only seemed to add to the defeats he’d gathered along the way.

If it really was true that the chalice would manifest itself regardless of location, guided only by a heart’s desire to break a curse, then it meant his feelings on the matter weren’t worthy enough to grant him such a cure. If there was one thing he wished for, and yearned for it with all his might, was for his knight to be free of the ailments that plagued him. There was no one who wanted it more than him – and yet, it wasn’t enough.

The same core downfall could be found related to his past attempts, namely the time he fully gave into superstitions, believing that a kiss could save his beloved. Of course, he could see now, those beliefs were no more than legends; but he told himself that simply to deflect from the fact that he’d found no comfort in them. Despite his sentiments, the curse remained.

If there really was magic of a kinder nature in this universe, it had denied him. He’d never bend it to his favor, because it refused to listen to him; and he couldn’t erase the notion that it was due to his selfishness.

No matter how noble his intentions seemed from the outside, he knew that they were built to his own benefit. On every successful scenario, one constant always remained: should Dale’s curse be lifted, the knight would still love him. Not only that, his most cherished fantasies were those in which they were allowed to elope, to exist together, forever united. If he were to fail now, however, he was bound to outlive The Flower Knight, and be doomed to an existence of missing him – and he could not face that destiny. In the end, he was doing this for himself.

The others wouldn’t be able to comprehend that. Their perspective was far too different. The only one who could read into those desires would be Dale, but Isadore hoped he’d never have to share them. It’d be best to just leave them implied, and live through the benefit of the doubt. Besides, if he ever was to say anything, it wouldn’t be now.

If the others were quiet, The Flower Knight was silence itself. He’d barely spoken after giving orders to lift camp, and continued with his terribly isolated ways. The detached image the others had of him before that moment paled in comparison to the current remoteness of his figure, a face so devoid of emotion it looked barely alive.

The one give in his demeanor were his eyes, still glowing with the same fierce determination that had always seemed to define them. It was the first thing that struck any onlookers, which was probably why no one questioned the escalation of his stoic behavior. The campaign’s apathy wasn’t doing much on that regard either – everyone seemed to be processing the frustrations of their journey, one way or another.

At first, the squire faced these circumstances with quiet resignation. If The Flower Knight didn’t feel like discussing the situation, he was in no position to push it – also taking into consideration how he’d break into apologetic tears if he did. Despite all that had happened, Dale’s constant motivated state seemed unchanged. Part of him admired the knight deeply for backing away from the mountain, despite not finding what he looked for, understanding that their mission was fruitless; mostly because he didn’t understand how someone could deal with such a disappointment. Isadore himself felt devastated, and his life wasn’t even the one on the line.

However, the squire also saw the cracks.

They were there in how Dale would sometimes hold his hand as they traveled back, his touch so soft and frail, shaking with a will to be stronger, but with no energy left to do so. It was in how the knight would hold them as they lied together, wrapping his arms around the squire’s body as if it was the last thing they had left to hold on to. It was in the beating of his heart, muted and hidden, barely audible beyond the foliage.

But most importantly, it was in his stare.

Isadore saw the same fire, the same perseverance that they always carried; but they were empty. Behind that light, there lied no purpose. It stood as an empty promise, hope merely as a concept, a placeholder for any actual sense of direction. It was the look of someone who had to keep going, even if they had nowhere to go.

And so Isadore understood, with all the grief that comes with such knowledge, that this is how The Flower Knight had been living ever since he got cursed. Following lead after lead, searching for a way to lift his burden, moving forward even when there was no path ahead. He did so in the past, as he did now, and there was nothing left to do.

But as he took in that look from the knight’s eyes, the squire also couldn’t help but notice the dark circles around them, or how they struggled to stay open as the sun started to set, and how they remained shut late into the morning; he saw the fighter’s heaving chest, and the sinking of his shoulders; the tiny breaks to his posture, and the increasing intervals for which he allowed them to happen.

How much was the curse actually hurting? How much of his survival depended on ignoring its full effects? How many other failed campaigns could he stand to live through?

How much time did they have left?

Isadore didn’t know what to do. Magic had failed him, it was never set to help him; his reach was so limited, his capacities were so useless. What else was left to offer, after he’d already fully given himself to his knight, body and soul? 

Such questions plagued every hour of his existence, not even fading during his dreams – which carried on with no changes to them, despite all the events that had unfurled in the conscious world. The same forest, girl, and pain; the same smile, always in a stare. His same lack of reaction, only their shared misery. The density of the foliage had increased so much in its constant fashion that by this point Isadore was sure it covered every atom, every speck of available space. He saw her and the trees all at once, a never-ending information overload, one that only the two of them could understand. 

He still begged her for an answer, even if he didn’t expect one. It was the only thing he could do; he simply wanted to be acknowledged. There was no one else who’d relate to his worry more than her. Every night, he cried in silence, in his mind alone – he knew the words would reach her just as much then as if he’d said them out loud – and every night he got silence in return.

Until he saw the cabin.

She took him there, guiding him with steps too painful to take, ripping through vines that grew around them like parasites, and that tangled themselves right back to life after being shredded; he followed her, as if controlled by an external force; he couldn’t stop even if he tried, not that he’d ever try. Every second stretched on beyond comprehension, each meter crossed only doubled the distance ahead of them. He felt every agonizing move, every exhausting stride; it was the longest journey he’d ever taken.

When it was over, it felt as if it’d happened as soon as it started. She stood by the building, placing a single hand upon its moss-infested walls, the greenery attempting to swallow it whole, invading every crevice. He tried speaking up, but no words came out – there was only the wind rushing through the trees, the leaves rustling against his skin. She invited him in, silently, perfectly still. The door swung open, but only in his mind.

She smiled, with her face this time; but he still failed to smile back.

~

Isadore walked through the tent’s entrance, once again being faced with the same picture of Dale hunched over a map, the champion’s mind lost in a flurry of strategies no other planner would be able to keep up with. The memory of all other times he’d seen this filled the squire’s chest with a mix of joy and worry, the first coming from how far he and his knight had come, and the latter due to how different this scene looked – the fighter’s head hung low and heavy, his eyes struggling to regain focus after long stretches of blinking, his shoulders so tense from holding the weight of his body they could snap at any moment.

No one else would see this, Isadore thought. No one else would find anything wrong with this sight, because The Flower Knight wouldn’t let it be seen.

“Day…” he sounded, his lungs crushed with the burden of the words he’d come there to say. The fighter made no change to his stance, but Isadore could tell he was listening. “I have to leave.”

Dale turned to look at him, his fingers slowly letting go of the table as he gradually straightened his back. The squire kept facing him, overcoming his desire to hide away, to avoid the aftermath of such an announcement. If the roles were reversed, that sentence would be sure to break him.

“I’ll come back!”, he blurter out, unable to take the silence any longer. “This isn’t forever. I’ll find you again, no matter where you are.” There was no exaggeration in his promise. “This is just something I have to do.”

The Flower Knight remained quiet, letting Isadore’s proclamations fade into the afternoon air. The squire was faced with the same neutral expression the champion always brought with him, but was unsure on how true that sentiment actually was.

“I won’t stop you”, Dale finally said, turning back to the map. “If you say this is important to you, then you are free to go.”

Isadore looked down, nodding shily. There was no easy way of doing this, but the fact that the fighter was allowing it to run this smoothly felt almost shameful. It shouldn’t have to be done at all.

“However…” The Flower Knight’s voice seemed to melt away, a whispered lament. He shifted his posture back to Isadore, who lifted his head towards him. “Stay.” The request stained the air like a single flower stands out in a bush, blooming out of season. “Please stay”, it came again, not an order but a plea, a helpless cry, a prayer; a wish so profound it bent the reality around it, as if belonging to a different plane entirely, one no human could attempt to control. The knight took a step forward, reaching out to Isadore’s hand, holding it in that universe, grounding them in a world where nothing else existed. “Please, Dory”, he begged once more, piercing through the squire’s very soul with a stare of fondness so incessant it could reach him from a million miles away.

Isadore felt the touch of the knight’s hands against his, every inch of his body burning like a sunset, as the fighter’s presence was the same as being basked in that same wondrous light. He inched himself closer, lost on Dale’s pull – but far too aware of how it wasn’t as strong as it once had been. The paleness of the other’s skin, the lost glow of purpose behind his relentless determination, it all screamed in quiet terror, like a forest ground deprived of sunlight, overshadowed by the ravaging leaves. He couldn’t take another failed campaign. 

He came even closer, standing right in front of Dale, lifting the other’s hand directly between their faces – the only thing separating them, in fact. Isadore placed a single kiss against the fighter’s knuckles, stroking the spot softly with his thumb, backing away so slowly it was almost imperceptible.

The Flower Knight moved that same hand, placing it against the squire’s cheek, gently running its fingers down the other’s skin, brushing tenderly against Isadore’s lips, returning the kiss. Isadore smiled.

He stepped away, untangling their hands, shooting Dale one last look to reaffirm his promise – he would come back, he’d find him no matter what. He’d failed on other aspects, but no one could make him go back on those words.

Dale blinked in agreement, turning away. Isadore wished he could close his eyes too, and achieve the same feat of not having to watch himself walk away.


	13. The cabin

Steadily, Isadore ventured into the woods, guided by a feeling more than anything else; his body was moved by the same logic that made the absurd seem real to the slumbering mind. He preferred not to think about it too much, as if the trail in his head would fade if he did, same way a dream that is remembered perfectly upon waking up dissipates into nothingness when the subject attempts to recall it. 

His very motivation seemed to operate on equally fragile rules. Breaking Dale’s curse was his one and only goal, of course – what really planted the seeds of doubt in his heart was how he was following this path based on dreams and nothing else; and if he stopped to think back to Dale begging him to stay, and how he walked away regardless, those seedlings grew into a forest as deep as the one he currently walked through.

And so he wandered, lost in a nearly mechanical haze, paying no mind to the fields he crossed or the mountains he passed, occasionally stopping to rest, hoping that he’d find his way back as easily as he walked now. 

When he came across the cabin, the feeling of familiarity struck him with the same violence of being shaken awake, but with the clarity of figuring out the source of a déjà vu. It stood just as discreet as in his mind, blending in almost completely with the rest of the greenery, and yet to his eyes it jumped out like a secret – the rush of finding something that hid in plain sight. 

The door creaked as he pushed it, letting himself inside. Although the visions in his dreams had been limited to the outer parts of the shack, its inside seemed just as unexplainably familiar. From the empty glass bottles lying on dusty shelves, to the yellowed pages spread open on scattered books with heavy leather covers; the foggy windows, so dirty they did little to reveal anything from the world outside, and the tattered floors, settling with every pace, as if they were tired of being tirelessly stepped on; the wooden walls, covered in moss and lichen, even inside, making it seem as if they were not made of boards, but of bark – everything had a disconnected edge about it, as if it was not meant to exist within this realm; Isadore might as well be dreaming still.

A rustle coming from behind a shelf brought him back from his aimless gazing, making him more alert than he’d been ever since he’d started his journey. He took a step back, readying himself – but to what, exactly? Could he face whatever lurked under such unsettling circumstances? Was he swift enough to outsmart it, outrun it? Another rustle, closer this time. Was it preparing an attack? He dared not breathe – but he could hear it, whatever it was, breathing in.

“Stand back!” The girl jumped from behind the shelf, holding a carved wooden stick in her hand, which she extended as far away from her body as she could, nearly bending her back. She held her head up, staring at Isadore through the thick lenses of her glasses, a few wild strands of her curly hair covering up her face, shaking slightly with each rushed breath she took. She held that wand with the same confidence Isadore managed his sword – hasty, desperate, certain in their uncertainty. He blinked.

“State your purpose!”, she demanded, her arm so tense it was shaking a bit.

Isadore hesitated. “I’m here to lift a curse”, he declared, carefully. It wasn’t that he felt threatened, he knew he shouldn’t – but, somehow, he felt the same fear he saw in the girl’s eyes, as if his hands were the trembling ones.

“What kind of curse?”, she inquired, lowering her head. Her thick eyebrows arched along with it, looking almost furious.

“A terrible one”, Isadore answered on a reflex. He felt his chest sink just by thinking about it. “You… You don’t…” he stuttered, realizing he’d never put it into words before. “There are… flowers, within you. And vines, and petals, and leaves, and…”, he trailed off, choking on a sigh, knowing that no matter how he chose to say it, it would never be enough to express the feeling of seeing it firsthand. “And… I need to lift it. I have to.” He could feel the tears growing on the corner of his eyes. He knew he’d drown on them if he continued to talk.

The girl lowered her hand a little, breaking off her posture. She still kept her head arched, but her eyes no longer carried her previous ferocity – they now showed themselves as intrigued, in every sense of the word. Isadore knew she’d be unable to strike him, but that didn’t make her any less willing to. 

“… How did you find this place?”, she asked, sounding almost afraid of the answer.

Isadore chuckled, caught between laughter and a sigh of defeat. “I wish I knew”, he said. The other blinked, but did not move. “I saw this place in a dream. A girl showed it to me.” No reaction. “I’m not here to hurt you, I’m… I need your help. Please.” He smiled, not knowing why. “I don’t know what to do.”

The girl fully lowered her arm, but still kept a tight grip around her weapon. Isadore had his doubts over whether she could actually conjure any spells with it, but he was certain she would try to poke his eye out as soon as she felt like it. “How long have you been cursed for?”, she asked, straightening her posture, looking up at him.

Isadore shook his head. “It’s not me.”

The girl’s eyes lit up, like an owl spotting a field mouse. She lunged forward, dropping her wand on the ground and producing a tiny dagger from her sleeve. Isadore stepped back, but she grabbed his wrist and pulled it closer, poking the tip of his ring finger and licking it. Isadore pulled away, mortified, as she turned and stared at him with curiosity so piercing it hit him as anger.

“A connection bound by blood, but going even beyond it.” She talked to herself. Fight or flight instinct was a lie, Isadore understood. There was only freezing. “Who are you?”, she asked, and he couldn’t think of any replies that would actually answer her question.

“I’m just looking for a cure”, he said, holding his pricked finger with his other hand. The girl stared at him, pausing for a moment. The light pouring in from the doorway flashed in the lenses of her glasses for a split second, creating a spark that suddenly shifted back inside when she turned around, motioning for him to come along.

“I’m sorry if I scared you then”, she said, picking up a metal rod and using it to poke a few dying embers on a fireplace. Isadore followed her, thinking of commenting something in the lines of how he wouldn’t call it scared, but stopped himself from talking upon realizing his heart was still racing. “It’s just you’re the first person who’s found this cabin ever since I got here.” She tossed another log or two with the others, and placed a kettle on the shaft hanging above the flames. She brushed her hair behind her ears, pointing to a stumpy-looking table with two chairs around it. Isadore sat on one of them, but the girl stood beside the fire.

She kept quiet.

“…Have you been here for long?”, Isadore managed to ask, unsure of how she wanted the conversation to proceed, if at all.

“A bit”, she said, staring at the flames. “I’m the apprentice of the witch who lives here. Or, I guess, lived.” She crossed her arms. “She’s been gone for a while now, I don’t think she’s coming back.”

A pause. “I’m sorry”, he said, trying to keep the moment from stretching on any further. “Were you close?”

“No.” She fixed her glasses. Her voice was blunt, but didn’t seem touched. Isadore figured he wouldn’t get much information aside from that. The girl fetched two cups from a nearby shelf, placing them on the table. “You said a girl showed you the way here?” She picked up a piece of cloth and used it to hold on to the kettle, pouring a dark liquid into the mugs. Suddenly the whole cabin smelled of tea.

“Ah!” Isadore took the cup into his hands. It was carved out of dark wood, and felt sturdy to the touch. “Yes, in a dream. Or dreams, rather.” He looked away. “I mean, I saw her in multiple dreams. But the cabin only showed up in one.” He stared at his drink, the darkness of the brew merging with the edges of the cup, appearing almost bottomless. “I know you have no reason to believe me.”

The girl sat in front of him, leaning a bit into the table. “What did she look like?”, she asked, with no hint of hostility in her voice. Isadore looked up, and was immediately met with the girl’s curious eyes, her eyebrows curved in a mixture of puzzlement and concern – for what, he didn’t know.

“She’s… about your age, I suppose”, he started. The girl nodded, still keeping her eyes fixed on him; he felt almost afraid of looking away. “With dense black hair, and light skin.” She blinked, with no change to her expression. “She’s shorter than you, but not by much; she’s got thick eyebrows, and a strong nose, and…” he paused, thinking back to the times he’d seen her. “She has deep, dark eyes, and they smile at you, which is somehow even stronger than her actual smile.” His dreams felt so short, and yet so heavy; so relevant within his soul. “She is kind, and caring, and it’s almost like she’s counting on me, which is… so silly of her, honestly, when she’s the one who…” He blinked rapidly, shaking his head slightly, realizing how far he’d trailed off – and how the girl was no longer looking at him, but instead at the darkened wood of the tabletop. “Ah, sorry, I… seem to have lost the point.”

“No”, she shook her head, “I needed to know this.” Her lowered shoulders were leaning their weight on her elbows, which rested on the table, keeping her arms forward. It was then that Isadore noticed the scar on her left palm – stable, but recent, bending with the rest of her skin as she rubbed her right thumb up and down the line, mindlessly. She looked up at him. “Do you think it’s possible to know someone, even if you know nothing about them?” He suddenly found her so trusting, in the way she said those words. The same fire that made her jump at him from the shelf, now directed at inviting him in instead of pushing him away – and it was effective.

Isadore nodded.

The girl nodded back, furrowing her brows in sudden determination. “Finish your drink, there’s something I want to show you”, she said, pointing at Isadore’s cup with her head, and gulping the contents of hers in one go before he could point out she hadn’t finished her tea either. She jumped from her chair and ran to a bookshelf on the side of the cabin, where she pulled out a tome with a folded piece of paper sticking out. She snatched it from between the pages, turning back to Isadore, who had been trying his best to drink his tea as quickly as possible. He stood up and followed her out the door.

“Here, you can keep this”, she said, handing him the sheet, which when opened revealed a crudely-drawn map full of scribbled annotations. “I’ve set some traps along the way, in case anyone showed up”, she explained, skipping through the trail, “but I’ll point at where you should and shouldn’t step anyway.”

Not that she had to, Isadore thought – her intentions were noble, he was sure, but her ability to actually hide her snares left a lot to be desired. Still, he followed along, pretending not to notice the very obvious triggers on the land until she pointed them out.

She walked at a steady pace, though Isadore could see she was anxious. If it wasn’t for him, she’d probably be running. Every now and then she rushed ahead, hopping through rocks and roots with the skill and impatience of someone who’d treaded on those grounds countless times before, but she always turned back for him, offering a hand.

He was grateful for the help, and whatever shreds of patience she somehow managed to conjure up – while her traps certainly wouldn’t kill him, he couldn’t make the same assumptions about anything else in those woods. The foliage was so dense that the light which passed through it was barely enough to hit the ground; dead leaves created a mat on the floor so dense it made Isadore wonder if there was any actual dirt beneath it; the trees around the path were packed so close together it was impossible to see a way out. He often found himself gasping as he walked, realizing he’d been holding his breath for no particular reason, other than perhaps a sense that air itself didn’t come as easily among so many living things, and had to be fought for.

Suddenly the girl sprinted forward, lunging herself up a hill, coming to a halt upon reaching its top. Isadore followed behind her, stopping by her side once he reached her, then following her line of sight to the middle of a clearing, perhaps the only one on the region; but what shocked him wasn’t the presence of sunlight, though he’d missed it – lying on the grass, melting into the scenery, stood the girl from his dreams.

To say, however, that she lied on the grass is somewhat deceiving, for it’d be more appropriate even to say she lied in it – the edges of her hair merged with the surrounding foliage, fading to green halfway through, creating grassblades of impossible thinness; nests of vines tangled themselves around her wrists, binding her hands into the soil, as if she were forever holding on to the ground; the fibers of her dress were worn-out and faded, pierced by the wildflowers that seemed to sprout straight from the girl’s skin, her own body turned into the most peculiar of gardens, somehow both fragile and resilient down to its very core. Her eyes were shut into a peaceful expression, except the sight of her evoked anything but.

Isadore couldn’t bring himself to blink.

“I found her a while ago”, said the girl by his side, breaking the silence. “I rigged the path so no one else would.” She crossed her arms, running her thumb through the side of her elbow. “I’m not… I’m not really the witch’s apprentice, I’ve never even seen the witch; but I think she’s the one behind it.” She shook her head. “Don’t ask me why. There’s other stories like this in the village, from… back when she was still around.” 

Isadore stayed silent, he didn’t know for how long – time had lost its meaning. 

“I’ve been trying to lift her curse, that’s why I’m staying at the cottage; the witch left notes, and so many spellbooks, and there’s got to be something-“ she stopped, her posture growing more tense. “But nothing seems to work, and I’m… not very good. At the whole magic thing.” She kept looking at the girl in the clearing, her stare more eager than Isadore had ever seen it get. “There’s just something about her, something that tells me I have to keep going, that I have to keep trying, I… I feel like I know her, somehow! Even if I have never even talked to her, I feel like I know her, and that I should know her, and…” she turned to Isadore, her curly hair swinging along, bouncing sharply with the suddenness of the movement. “And then there’s you!”

Isadore shifted to face her as well, the forest spinning around him. His head weighted more than all the trees added together.

“You feel like you know her too, don’t you? And you actually do, because of your dreams! You’re connected, despite not even trying!” She looked down at her left palm, and then back at the girl in the clearing. “I tried everything I could, and it still didn’t work. I’m… different, somehow, but you are not – you and her, you are the same.” Isadore felt his hand close into a fist, concealing the spot where his finger had been pricked. His shoulders twitched. “If you’re that close to her, maybe you can save her! You can succeed!” She stepped near to him, barely containing her energy; the expectations of an entire lifetime that existed only in dreams of success.

Isadore felt himself starting to breathe more and more heavily, wondering whether he’d been breathing at all until then. His hands were shaking, and he could feel his knees starting to give in. He looked at the girl in front of him, feeling the eagerness in her bones, the restlessness of her soul; he was way too familiar with it, way too deep into its cause. 

“She’s…” he started, but the words felt heavy on his lungs, too hard to push out. He shook his head, staring back at the figure lying in the clearing, and being far too aware of the one standing next to him.

“She’s… not the one I came to save.”

~

Isadore scanned through the pages of yet another tome, the stained edges showing that it’d been consulted a lot, and the dozens of scrawled notes on every border further proving that idea; however, despite the sheer amount of information contained on every sheet, from the detailed spell instructions to the extra footnotes, he could understand none of it.

The girl – Harper, actually, as he had learned, just as she had learned his name; it was almost embarrassing how long they’d taken to reveal it to one another – said that witches tend to write in code so that no outsiders are able to uncover their secrets; but he thought that even treating those books like a puzzle still made them impossible to solve. As if the typography of the works themselves weren’t confusing enough, there seemed to be no logic to the handwritten annotations.

“I think this is a reference to a ritual described in another book”, Harper said, pointing to one of the scribbles, “since it talks about the phases of the moon of specific years”. She might as well have pointed to literally anything on the page; it’d make as much sense to him. She had a notebook of her own where she wrote down whatever information she could decipher, and she’d sometimes leave her own notes on the books as well, next to the witch’s – but it was enough to understand only a fraction of the sheer amount of texts on that cabin.

“Then there’s this book”, she said, slamming a block of pages as thick as her arm in front of Isadore, on top of the book she’d already spread out on the table “which specifically mentions the type of curse we’re trying to lift, but it makes no mention of how to cure it.” Isadore started at the diagrams on the pages, illustrating what he assumed were hand movements associated with the spell’s casting. “But the flower aspect of it comes from a different enchantment altogether, which looks particularly tricky to pull off”, she continued, flipping the pages to a section near the end, landing on a spread with so many annotations the original text was riddled incomprehensible, so scratched over and rewritten that it might as well be its own new spell.

“How can you understand any of this?”, asked Isadore as he leaned back, overwhelmed by the amount of information laid out in front of him.

“Some of it is pretty intuitive”, Harper shrugged, “like whenever there’s an image description. Most of the items listed are pretty easy to find, but they’re called by different names so that you think they are some sort of rare, exotic material. Then there are some parts which are written using a different alphabet, so once I cracked that I could go back and access some tips I couldn’t before.” She spoke as if it were a lot simpler than it actually was. He wondered how much time she’d spent trying to understand those foreign words, for how long she’d been trying to put them into practice.

He sipped his tea, somewhat grateful that he could do it as calmly as he pleased this time. Harper seemed to be looking for yet another book, as if that would be any more able to answer the questions that plagued Isadore’s mind. The vision of the girl lying in the grass haunted him whenever he blinked, sending a chill down his spine. Was Dale fated to become just as debilitated someday? How much time did he have left? Was it the same witch who once lived there the cause of the knight’s predicament? 

“Here, see?” Harper returned with another tome, slamming it open on the table after pushing the two previous ones aside. It was significantly bigger, with a thick cover made of red leather. “This is one of the counterspells I tried, but it didn’t work”. She pointed at a line of text, following it with her finger as she read it out loud: “A connection bound by blood, but going even beyond it. Except my blood isn’t binding.”

This one was a little less inaccessible, since Harper had added her fair share of notes to the margins. Isadore ran his eyes through them, trying to absorb as much as he could. “What is it supposed to do, exactly?”, he asked, looking at what appeared to be a list of necessary materials – surprisingly short; there was at least that.

“I’m… not sure”, Harper said, looking away. Isadore noticed an annotation with a page number – he could understand that part, but nothing else. “I knew the necessary steps, but I was never… able to fully translate the consequences.” He tried flipping through the rest of the pages, searching for the reference, but Harper swiftly closed the book shut, lifting it against her chest – which did little to hide how red her face looked. “But it’s not going to work anyway. I must’ve read something wrong.”

Isadore shuddered. How ironic it would be, using blood magic to save someone who lacked the very material the spell was based around. He felt a burst of pain on his right shoulder, remembering the spot that Dale had bandaged, how he couldn’t bear to look at it; he’d be such a terrible wizard, cringing at his own blood. He smiled, but it hurt to do so – deep within his chest, there was a longing so profound he struggled to contain it more with each passing day; a wish to be patched up, made whole again, guided by the same healing touch that served as the source of his purpose.

He turned back at Harper, seeing her hunched over the bookshelf, struggling to keep yet another massive tome open, propping it up against her body with one hand while trying to use the other to flip through the pages, yet with every movement she broke her stance and had to hold on to the cover with both arms. That was the true extent of the witch’s magic; its cruelty spawned even beyond her original targets. He looked down at his own hands, so shamefully empty; and he knew that no matter how many pages the new cabin owner carried, her hands were just as bare.

“I have to go”, he said, knowing it to be true – but still finding himself unable to stand up. The girl looked up at him, pausing her search for a second, then nodding once, her brows furrowed in understanding. 

He nodded back, and headed to the door.


	14. The curse

Getting back to camp was surprisingly easy. Guided by the same subtle force that led him to the cabin, Isadore retraced his way almost mechanically, accessing a path he didn’t even remember remembering. He found the campaign not far from where he’d left them, which wasn’t even that distant from the witch’s hut in the first place. He wondered whether they’d run into it if they changed their course a little, but figured otherwise – it didn’t seem like the sort of place one can just walk into unless invited.

The men greeted him, only a few commenting on his short absence, but he didn’t mind if he was missed or not. His duty was unrelated to them; all he could think of was reuniting with the one person his destiny chose to follow.

He stepped in through camp, brushed by the same wind which waved the king’s banners around him, a symbol that couldn’t mean any less to him now. Dale’s tent was a little isolated from the rest, which also made it instantly identifiable. Not that Isadore needed the visual cue – at that point, it was as if his heart guided his steps on its own. He’d find that place even if he were blind.

He walked inside, expecting to be met with the same sight as before, his knight framed by his own analytical attitude, bent over documents – but the vision that actually reached him defied even his worst case scenarios.

Dale seemed indeed lost in thought, but not of an investigative matter; it was void, and worrisome, and crushing, a disoriented struggle. He kept his head propped up against his hands, as if it could no longer stand its own weight – and the same could be said about the rest of his body, seeing as the man was sitting down in exhausted defeat. Even though he was not wearing his armor, he seemed just as shielded from the outside world, for nothing would be able to break though the barriers he’d put up. That picture itself was just as unsettling as he probably felt.

“…Day?”, Isadore called out, carefully coming near him.

The Flower Knight lifted his head in a jolt, the movement soon followed by the rest of his body. “You came back…!”, he said, his voice quivering, the suggestion of a cry he couldn’t allow himself to howl out. “You came back”, he stepped closer, and closer still, rushing towards his beloved, taking him into his arms as fire embraces the coal. “You came back”, he whispered, his face buried deep into his lover’s neck, his lips finding a home in the other’s skin, soft and safe. If a kiss was worth a thousand words, the knight had entire speeches to share.

Isadore breathed in, probably as freely as he’d done ever since leaving camp, holding on to Dale in a flustered lock, their arms forming knots around each other more secure than the bolts that safeguard treasures inside a chest. He ran his temples against the back of the other’s head with a swiveling motion, sighing as the knight’s dense black hair caressed him in return. 

“You came back”, Dale’s voice rang again, this time closer to the squire’s ear. The surprise and wonder in every syllable expressed more thankfulness than any prayer, the sort of gratitude deities could only wish to achieve. “You came back”, it echoed once more, the words fading into another kiss, passionately overcoming Isadore’s lips. “You don’t have to tell me about your journey, if you don’t want to”, The Flower Knight explained as he pulled back, his face lost in a smile so wide it seemed almost desperate, only to sink itself into Isadore’s shoulders. “I’m just glad you’ve returned to me.”

The squire held him with equally passionate tension, wishing his remaining days could be nothing else but that feeling, that same miraculous warmth, undying adoration… And still, every hug and glance, every movement and breath only reminded him of the fragility of their situation. It was haunting how much The Flower Knight’s health had deteriorated during the days in which he’d been gone. He didn’t know whether the curse really had progressed in an accelerated fashion, or if it had kept the same pace as always – the real change being that the fighter could no longer bear to hide its effects. Dale felt so light, and yet so heavy, as if all had been drained from him and replaced with the pure stuff of horrors; against his arms, the knight felt so brittle, and yet carried ten times the strength Isadore ever could.

“…What happened?”, he asked, that one question hiding every single query that flooded his mind, all the tangled threads he couldn’t weave together. Dale kept holding on to his chest, nearly trembling. Isadore knew him better than anyone ever had, but there was still so much hiding in the dark. “How did you become cursed?” 

He could feel the knight’s hold growing tighter, twisting in terror. Dale simply shook his head.

“Dale, I’ve seen things…”, Isadore tried again. “There is a cabin in the woods, it isn’t far from here.” The fighter pulled himself even closer, not that it was any possible to do so. “A witch seemed to have inhabited it, and she left notes – they speak of the same curse you have.”

Silence.

Isadore hesitated. At that point, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t told Dale about the true nature of his dreams, or why he was so afraid of sharing them even now. “…There was a girl”, he started, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve seen her in my dreams before. She…” He felt the words trail off. It was one thing telling Harper about her, but this was different. It was as if he knew her just as much as he knew the fighter, with most of their true lives also being a mystery to him. “She showed me the way to the cabin, in a dream”, he continued. “She’s always in my dreams, somehow.” He felt a shiver run through his spine, the memories coming back in a flood. He saw her smiling eyes, holding every tree and vine. “I think she has the same curse as you.”

And with that, The Flower Knight fell to the ground.

He hid his face between his hands, his fingers digging hard into his hairline, his thumbs nearly crushing his temples. The squire could see he was shaking even before he placed a hand upon Dale’s shoulder, but that didn’t stop him from doing so. The fighter choked, seemingly holding his breath, the weight of his sorrow turning the entire room darker. His fingernails were like thorns, pressing so hard against his skin that it would either break his fingers or rip through the tissue until he reached his own skull.

Isadore took the knight’s hands into his, which were suddenly encompassed by the other’s shattering grip.

Dale cried out with the force of a hurricane. 

~

“I’ve always been destined to be a knight”, Dale started. “I suppose it’s why I left home so young.”

They lied together now, as they used to do before Isadore left. The squire’s head rested upon the fighter’s chest, their hands laced together – the knight still hadn’t let go of them. Isadore stroked the other’s skin with his thumb, following the rhythm of Dale’s breathing, trying to ignore the fact that he could no longer hear his heartbeats; the sound was now completely muffled by the leaves.

Instead, he focused on the fighter’s voice, thankful for the fact that the other was speaking up at last; Isadore had lost track of how long he cried for, and then for how long he stayed silent, nearly senseless, his eyes completely unfocused as he leaned against the squire. The sun had set many hours ago, and was probably getting ready to rise again. Isadore didn’t care – he’d stay up for a week straight if necessary.

“We’re not meant to keep ties to our families, aside from the names of our houses”, the knight continued, “though that is more related to a sense of pride and belonging, which I can’t say I’ve always felt.” He sounded hesitant, the grip of his fingers tightening around Isadore’s.

“I understand”, said the squire, giving his knight a moment to pause.

“I’d rather be recognized for my own efforts”, he carried on with a short nod. “Some say I was considered a prodigy, and I owed none of that to where I came from. I didn’t care much for my origins at that point.” He breathed in. Isadore waited. “Until I found out my parents had had more children.”

The squire could feel the motion of the vines within the fighter’s chest, twisting into knots that could never be untied. He was caught by the notion that he could almost relate to it, in a way – it was just as his insides felt when he heard the grief in The Flower Knight’s voice.

“I had a sister, or so I’d been told.” There was a quiver to his tone, a mix of both sorrow for things past and relief for talking about them. “We’re not supposed to reach out, but…” he faltered, losing his breath. “Have you ever felt a longing so strong it crushed your heart? Loneliness that had always been there, but that you refused to acknowledge?”

“Yes”, Isadore answered, even though he could feel the question was rhetorical; he just couldn’t help himself, seeing that was the driving force behind his attempts at getting closer to Dale.

“Her name was Joan”, he continued, a gentle twitch of his fingers acknowledging the squire’s response. “We exchanged letters, mostly in secret, at least on my part. Talking to her was like finally being allowed to breathe; her words gave me more perspective than any mission ever had.” He tightened his grip. “She meant everything to me.”

Isadore could feel the tension building up; the knight’s body felt shaky against his.

“When I heard my old village had been attacked, my heart shattered in despair”, he said. “I traveled there as fast as I could, but when I arrived, there was nothing left. Houses were burned to a crisp, bodies piled up on the side of the road; but even though it had just happened, it seemed like the massacre had occurred centuries ago. The ruins were overtaken by moss, trees sprouted from the cobblestones, corpses bloomed into gardens. It was the most unnatural sight I’d ever encountered.”, declared the knight. 

“But she’d been spared, somehow – whatever caused the damage in town hadn’t reached our fortress with the same strength to its blow. Our parents were gone, but she was still alive; barely, but that was enough for me”, he commented, almost laughing in heartbreak, lost in the memory. “Except something was wrong. She tried speaking, but was too weak to make sense of her own words. When I picked her up, I realized she was wounded; but what flowed from her veins was no longer blood… There were flowers, brighter than I’d ever seen, and they didn’t stop coming.”

The squire shivered, knowing Dale’s pain to be the same as his own. The sight of the petals was impossible to forget, their colors burning vividly in his mind. Dale continued, mentioning how light she was in his arms, how he could feel her pain as if it were his own, the vines ripping through his insides, the incessant blooming bursting through his ribcage. The squire stayed still, his heart aching in agreement.

“There were tales about a witch who lived nearby”, he said. “It was one of the few things I remembered from back when I still lived in the village. I didn’t give much credit to the stories before, but by that point I had nowhere else to go. I searched the surrounding woods until I found her cabin, but it was empty, so turned to the spellbooks she’d left behind for help… But they were nearly impossible to understand. I spent so many nights awake trying to crack the codes, but I could only get so far… And even what I managed to discover was useless to me. No matter how many attempts I made, I couldn’t lift her curse.” Isadore understood that pain more than he wanted to. 

“With every hour that passed, I could tell she was inching closer to her demise. At that point, she was fully unresponsive”, continued the knight. “There was one last spell I was able to decipher, but I’d been afraid of using it since; one doesn’t have to be all that well-versed in the arcane arts to know that you shouldn’t tinker with blood magic.” Isadore shuddered. “But I was desperate, and it was my only way out.”

Silence.

“…Did you do it?”, Isadore dared asking, even though he could guess what the answer would be – but he knew this was a story The Flower Knight had to follow through to the end.

Dale nodded. “It was the only thing that worked”, his voice almost cracked. “But it was still not enough.” The squire unlaced their hands, placing his arm around the knight’s body, fully embracing him. The fighter followed his lead. “I carry her curse now, but just part of it. It’ll have to go through me first before ending her, though it still might end her; I’m essentially buying her time.”

“Was that what caused you to go rogue?”

“There’s not much use in following someone else’s banner if you’ve got a bigger mission of your own”, Dale answered. “All that mattered to me was finding a way to break my sister’s curse. I answered to no one but that.”

“Even now?”

“Even now.”

Dale brushed Isadore’s hair back, sighing heavily. He let his hand fall at the base of the other’s neck, just as it merged into his shoulders. Isadore rejoiced at the weight of the fighter’s touch, feeling as though it could forever keep him from all evil – even though The Flower Knight was the one who needed that same blessing the most.

“…How much time do you still have?”, he asked, with a heavy load on his heart.

But Dale had fallen asleep.


	15. Newfound shelter

The following morning didn’t bring them much comfort. The Flower Knight had gotten up as usual, carrying on with his typical routine, but Isadore could see he was struggling. Whatever façade he’d been managing to put up thus far had fallen, and he’d never be able to keep up his act.

The rest of the men were either too caught up in their own worries to notice, or too afraid to ask. As the camp was dismantled and the group kept moving forward, the squire couldn’t help but wonder if there was even a point in going back. If Dale really was fully committed to his idea of not following anyone’s plan but his own, then there was no reason why he should waste his time explaining the campaign’s failures to the king.

He thought about sharing such thoughts with his knight, rehearsing them several times in his own mind before attempting to argue. As the party stopped to rest and the two had a moment alone, Isadore decided that was the best opportunity to plead his case – but when he approached Dale, the other collapsed into his arms.

~

The cabin wasn’t far; the squire still remembered the way. Dale insisted it wasn’t necessary at first, but was quickly shut down by the squire telling him to not waste his own strength with such pointless remarks. By the time the sun rose against the verdant horizon, they were long gone from the campsite.

Isadore didn’t have to say a word as Harper opened the door; one look upon The Flower Knight’s tired figure leaning against the squire’s shoulder and the girl understood exactly what they were dealing with. He could see it in her face, the heavy light in her eyes; a somber reflection of his own. That was a pain she was way too familiar with.

He carried Dale up to a bed in a corner, resting against the wall, beneath one of the cabin’s windows. The knight seemed hesitant, attempting to slur out a dispute, but Isadore put a steady hand against the other’s cheek, stroking it gently, and the fighter soon gave into his own exhaustion. The squire took a moment to stare into his paled complexion, a shadow of its former vigor; full of color on the inside, nothing left on the outside.

Harper caught him up to date. Several books were spread out on the kitchen table; she was in the middle of solving a cross-referencing puzzle that could potentially lead her to unraveling an entire page’s worth of vocabulary. She kept a notebook where she wrote down her findings, attempting to categorize them, but she’d spent very little time trying to organize the words she’d put down. She let the squire have it, arguing that she already knew most of it by heart.

Isadore tried helping her at first, but struggled to familiarize himself with the language presented. Harper’s rushed handwriting was scribbled all over the tomes; sometimes a sentence started in one of the top margins and carried over to the bottom half of an entirely different book, simply because they were placed next to each other; he often ran into phrases that were comprised entirely of references to other footnotes. By the time he’d understood a single annotation, the girl had created three new ones.

He stepped away from that mess, attempting to clear his mind. His attention was captured by a small garden on the back of the house; Harper mentioned that it was probably under some sort of spell too – she’d been harnessing produce from it ever since she’d found the cabin, and it never seemed to run out.

Soon, he had a pot on the fire, and potatoes boiling inside. As he chopped up some carrots to go with it, he took in the rest of the indoors environment. It was only one room, and it was pretty spacious, but the scattered bookshelves made it look more cluttered than it should. They were probably added without much thought to their position, as the witch’s tome collection grew. There was a table in the kitchen, and a desk tucked out in a corner, its drawers stuffed with pieces of paper.

Harper leaned on the table with her elbows, standing up, a single knee resting on a nearby chair; Isadore thought back to their first encounter, and how the darkened wood of the furniture was still visible then, unlike now. He couldn’t judge; he felt just as messy inside - but what struck him the most about the memory was how they’d both sat by that table, sharing cups of tea and an awkward conversation.

Two chairs. He’d located the other one; it was being used as a stand to another pile of books, hidden away amongst the pages. There was the bed The Flower Knight rested upon, but there was also another one, hidden behind a bookshelf that divided the cabin like a wall, near the desk. Two carved wooden cups, one tucked away in a kitchen cabinet, the other next to Harper, forgotten, its contents chilled beyond enjoyment. The witch did not live alone.

Could this companion have survived whatever fate the sorceress had suffered from? Would they be willing to help, should Isadore manage to locate them? Would they actually have the capacity to do so?

Dale stirred, waking up with a restless sigh. The squire rushed to his side, kneeling next to the bed, holding on to the other’s hand. The Flower Knight blinked slowly, turning to stare at him, his eyes heavy and weary but loving, so desperately loving, and Isadore knew he could not live without them – just as he knew Dale had felt that very same certainty before.

Leaning in closer, stroking the fighter’s hair with his other hand, Isadore asked in a whisper:

“Would you like to see her?”

~

The afternoon light barely managed to hit the forest ground, mostly blocked by the overgrown trees. Isadore helped Dale throughout the uneven path, still remembering the way Harper had shown him the first time he’d been there. She’d chosen to stay behind this time, still caught up in her investigations, but offered to take them there if needed; the squire assured her it was fine. 

It wouldn’t be long until the sun started to set. The clearing was bathed in that soft lazy glow, barely starting to turn golden. Bathed by it, Joan looked almost alive again, if one could ignore the flowers sprouting from her hair and the moss entangled in her limbs. She was just taking a nap, Isadore told himself, trying to keep himself optimistic – she’d wake up soon.

Dale stumbled closer, falling to his knees. He placed a single hand upon her forehead, gently brushing her fringe back, the gesture so natural it was as if he’d done it a thousand times before. The squire felt a shiver of understanding running through his spine; the fighter and his sister might not have known each other for most of their lives, but in their hearts, they’d always been together. The idea of finding each other in such a crazy world, reuniting with something one didn’t even know had been lost; it seemed like a blessing bigger than magic itself.

The Flower Knight didn’t say a word, but in a way his silence said more than any speech ever could. It was a quiet conversation, Isadore found, one reserved to a language far too private to be understood by those who weren’t born with it already etched into their hearts. The English of their exchanged letters was merely a crude translation, but the poetry and spirit of the original permeated every line; and now, it spoke so loudly it muted all else.

The squire though of stepping away, giving the two some privacy, but he couldn’t – deep down, he missed her too, even though he constantly saw her in his dreams. He wouldn’t dare compare his situation to Dale’s, but felt strongly enough about it to stay, as if he had any right to share that moment. The guilt of doing so would never be surpassed by the regret he’d feel in leaving. He missed her, he missed them, he missed the future he wished to share with his lover, and that weight alone felt as if every log in that forest had been placed upon his shoulders.

As the sky burned orange, The Flower Knight stood up, casting Joan one final look. His attention was quickly turned to Isadore, who’d shyly offered his arm for support, though Dale seemed keener on pretending he didn’t need it.

“Thank you”, he said, “for staying with me”, his voice echoed, and his eyes added words of their own; though the kindness and warmth in them could never be properly written down.

Isadore guided The Flower Knight back to the cabin, where he promptly collapsed back onto the bed.


	16. The correspondent

Dale insisted on being awake, despite his condition. Harper took the books out of the second chair so he could sit next to her, and gave him a brief rundown of what she’d been working on; she’d found this one tome encased in a black velvety material that might contain some more counterspells that they could try out, but it was written in an alphabet that was entirely different from the ones she’d cracked so far, and mentions of its system were scarce – still, she’d gathered the others books which referenced the spells on that one, and used them as a guide to try and decipher the rest of the text.

Isadore had tried to help, but the task felt a little beyond him. He managed puzzles well enough, but that was unlike anything else he’d encountered. Instead, he resorted to categorizing the information that Harper had already learned, organizing the footnotes and comments scattered around the margins, the notes written down on countless loose strips of paper.

The Flower Knight took on the challenge, bending over the spread documents as the girl did, but he never made it very far; he managed to crack a word or two, but it wasn’t long until his impending fatigue took over his body. Isadore watched as he got progressively more tired, nodding off between lines, trying to keep his head up by resting his forehead against his hands. He’d deny help at first, no matter how many times Isadore asked; but the squire had learned to give it an hour or so, at which point he didn’t even have to insist – he simply took Dale by the arm and guided him back to bed, and the other would follow his lead without question.

Harper was usually just as stubborn. Her definition of rest consisted of taking several “power naps”, as she called them, throughout the day – but Isadore saw them more as “crashing from exhaustion and jolting awake an hour later”. After some insistence, he convinced her to sleep in shifts, alternating with himself; she accepted it, under the notion that no time was being wasted, now blessed with the certainty that someone else would be working even if she wasn’t. He wondered how she’d been managing through the months she spent alone, but came to the conclusion that the least he could do was make sure she didn’t have to go through it on her own anymore. At least in that regard, he knew the curse would never win.

He found comfort in small things; cooking, cleaning, general upkeep – anything he figured might bring happiness to others as well. It was how he could make up for his lack of decoding progress. The girl seemed to almost blink back to existence whenever he placed a fresh cup of tea next to her, thanking him with a sort of enthusiasm that seemed to come from joy instead of her usual anxious frenzy. He smiled in response; what else could he do? He understood her desperation all too well. He was glad he could offer any relief to her situation.

Her schedule was erratic, but he adapted to it, while still insisting she took time to rest. Dale managed to stay awake for short intervals of time, but they were becoming shorter. Still, there were rare moments in which the three of them were up at the same time, working to the best of their ability – and it filled Isadore with a fleeting sense of power, gratitude for not being alone, for not having them face it alone. 

Searching through the bookcases, he found it hard to locate a single book Harper hadn’t already looked through. He revised her notes, but even with their aid it was hard for him to come to any conclusions she hadn’t already reached weeks ago. He tried checking with Dale, seeing which tomes he’d consulted in his past attempts, but the fighter had been struggling more every day with staying awake.

Therefore, he turned to the materials Harper had ignored: the documents stuffed in the witch’s desk. Despite not understanding the language they were written in, one quick glance at them revealed that they were letters – the format was hard to miss. The girl confessed that she didn’t see much use in them, choosing to leave them aside for now and focus on the more practical aspects of magic. Still, Isadore found out he had a much easier time cracking the codes on those papers rather than on spells, so he decided to give it a try.

It didn’t take long for him to realize those had not been written by the witch, but instead addressed to her – which, he figured, was fair enough; it made more sense for her to keep the letters sent to her instead of those she wrote herself. The dates were evenly spaced, and the flow was constant; whoever had written them had been corresponding with the woman for a long time, and seemed pretty interested in talking, seeing how the messages were usually several pages long. 

Luckily for him, a lot of the words used could already be found in Harper’s notes, lifted from other sources, and some of the rest could be guessed through context. The last terms on each page, for instance, had a positive air to them, working as one’s usual “best regards” – and it seemed fitting that they had no correspondent in the girl’s notes, for they were almost always negative words. These goodbyes were all followed by the same name, shining in careful handwriting; “Grace”, it said. 

The witch’s name, on the other hand, remained a mystery, though Isadore could see her correspondent always used a specific word when referring to her. The lack of an upper-case character at the start hinted that it was some sort of term of endearment – though its meaning was lost on him. The subjects of the letters varied, but seemed to stick to the mundane; Grace spoke of her gardens, the mountains, a bird that always visited, their shared fondness for that animal, fondness for one another. They were close, he could see; the love ingrained in every paragraph stood out to him more than any specific jargon, any event or anecdote.

He made a list of vocabulary he wished to understand, hoping that Harper could help him. She recognized some of the words immediately, though others remained unknown. One of them caught her attention – she’d seen it before, she just didn’t know where; it was the term of endearment Isadore had spotted. The answer came to her a few days later, as she approached Isadore with the same red tome that contained the blood counterspell she’d failed to cast, tossing it open on top of the desk. She flipped through some pages until she found the annotation she was looking for, a word squeezed out between two lines of text, the ink barely legible among the other annotations: sibling. The witch was Grace’s sister.

The squire thanked Harper for her help; she smiled in response, returning to her tasks, leaving the book with him. He put it to the side, keeping in close just in case it contained more helpful translations, though he doubted he’d be able to locate them. Either way, he felt he’d already taken some significant steps forward, especially now.

Part of his work involved sorting out the letters in a more organized fashion. When he first found them, they seemed tidy enough, but he now understood that the dates were completely mixed up, and that some pages he thought were missing had actually been stored in different drawers. He put the documents in chronological order at first, and then separated that pile into smaller categories, such as the letters he understood most, those dealing with similar subjects, and so on.

As he got to the bottom of the desk storage, he made some different discoveries. There were several pieces of paper that had been either crumpled up, torn in half, or scratched until the text was no longer legible. They were letters too, but of a different kind – those had never been sent. The reasons as to why they were archived were unexplained, and Isadore also couldn’t tell if they were earlier drafts of letters that had been eventually rewritten and sent off, or merely failed attempts that were never revised. What he did know was the name of Grace’s sister, for the witch signed all her letters as Eve.

He organized those by date as well, and the results painted a rather disturbing picture. Older letters had maybe a scribble or two, a word scratched over, a footnote correcting an earlier paragraph. As the months moved forward, however, more and more those mistakes took over. Entire sections were scrawled through, paragraphs were ripped off, words were scratched and rewritten so many times the phrase ended up with the opposite meaning of when it had started.

The more the dates approached the current day, the text became impossible to understand. One page appeared to have had its corners burned; another had a sharp tear in the middle, as if it had been stabbed. Isadore found a letter which consisted of a single word, written countless times across the page and then again, over the first layer of text, only for the paper itself to be ripped through and then crushed. The handwriting got more and more careless, matching some of the more scribbled notes in the red spellbook; the witch had clearly been losing her mind.

He shared his findings with Harper, and found out she’d reached a similar conclusion; sometimes the books had two different types of annotations: one that actually expanded it meaning, carefully added and categorized, and one that only took meaning away from it, desperately scratched through in some sort of hysteria. They were made by the same person, as far as that idea would take them – how much of the witch’s sanity had been lost in the process? How much of her still remained? They would likely never know.

He’d gone over the letters multiple times now, but there was still a lot he didn’t understand. The girl suggested that he took a break from them, much like she did when working on her own puzzling documents – even if he reached no conclusions elsewhere, he’d still return to his original project with a new set of eyes, she explained with a smile. No matter how much time they spent together, he was still dumbfounded by the underlying optimism in her actions; if she’d been able to last that long without giving up, the least he could do is follow her example.

He took the red tome from before, reading through. It was true what the girl had said about the witch’s notes – in some pages, it was as if the two versions of the woman were fighting for the reader’s attention, conflicting annotations filling in every gap; other sections, however, were a bit more overlooked. He even found some of Harper’s notes scattered about, mostly highlighting vocabulary issues or referencing other works in the cabin’s collection. 

Coming across the previously mentioned counterspell, he was once again faced with the girl’s annotations, making the whole text seem at least a little more possible to solve. There was the line about the connection established by blood, but Isadore didn’t understand what could possibly define it as binding or not. The full consequences were also confusing – it seemed to free the inflicted individual of the curse, which was the desired effect, but the ritual required two people to be done; there was a suggestion of collateral damage on the second, but he didn’t understand it, or maybe didn’t want to; it sounded far too grim.

He stumbled across the girl’s reference to another spell, which could be found within that same book; upon flipping the pages, he found it to be some sort of procedure to enchant a dagger, which in turn could be used in the previous ritual. At first he figured it was optional, until further readings proved his impression to be a mistranslation – it was an essential step for the spell to work properly. The procedure itself was harder to understand, but he could see it took a long time to be completed. The presence of sunlight was also mentioned in the counterspell, specifically the type coming from the hour right before the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.

What surprised him most, however, was the fact that those pages had four sets of handwritings: the witch’s, in her varying degrees of sanity; Harper’s, filling up most of the margins; and another set of annotations, consisting not of words but of underlines, scribbled arrows and asterisks, marks of emphasis, the ink not matching the rest. He hadn’t seen it before; when asked, the girl denied making them.

With a weakened nod, The Flower Knight confirmed they were his. Isadore had waited anxiously for an opportunity to ask, worried that it would never come – but his response only raised more questions. What other spells had he tried? How much of the witch’s code had he been able to crack? How much of the instructions had he followed? The squire tried discussing those issues, but found his knight too sickened to understand him, let alone give him any explanations.

Isadore returned to the letters, trying to overcome his frustration. The casual, loving tone of the sister’s words often struck him as oddly comforting, as if he was the one being addressed; maybe he wished to be in a position where he could just ravel on such mundane stories, maybe the woman was just that great a writer. He also found Harper’s advice to be effective: some of the parts that seemed incomprehensible to him before now felt easier to understand.

However, the more he delved into them, the stranger they became – not in their abnormality, but because of the exact opposite: the landscapes described started to feel a little too familiar. White spreading out as far as the eye could see, the vision only broken by the ashen black of naked tree trunks, surrounded by mist; the squire didn’t even need to read any more words, for he could picture the mountains of the end of his previous campaign clear as day in his mind.

The question sparked in his mind, but quickly turned to affirmation. All it took was a paragraph he’d misinterpreted before: he easily identified the word “curse”, the translation brought to him by Harper’s notes, but figured that it talked about one that had been placed; now, however, he saw that it instead went over one that had been lifted. The one responsible for doing so went unnamed, which at first led the squire to assume the sister discussed the very mystery surrounding the person’s identity, but now he understood there was no identity – there was no person. 

What he’d just deciphered was the account of the chalice’s last appearance.

This time, the news that he was leaving didn’t get as big of a reaction from Dale; though the knight was still aware enough of the situation to hold Isadore’s hand for a moment, his slow breathing standing as the biggest indicator that he was still alive. The squire admired him from the edge of his bed, watching as the afternoon shined down upon him, pouring through the window; it was probably enchanted as well, as so many things seemed to be, for as soon as one stepped outside they wouldn’t be able to find a space between the trees for the light to sparkle through.

Harper asked if it wouldn’t be best to wait until morning before traveling, resting safe while he still could; he found it almost funny coming from her, seeing as she hadn’t followed that same piece of advice in a mighty long time. Still, he refused, but didn’t have to insist much – they both knew time was running out.

He rushed out of the door.


	17. Autumn in the snow

The mountains stood just as frigid, their glow equally colorless; Isadore had been thinking about them so tirelessly during his voyage that he barely even noticed it when he finally arrived, as if all he’d been able to see for the past days were those same trails of paleness. He didn’t even realize the time had passed, even though he’d traveled at record speeds – but it was unfair to compare the swiftness of a single rider to the weight of a full-scale party.

Now that he was there, however, he had to face the hardest challenge of his journey: finding Grace. He didn’t even know how he’d done it the first time; the men had searched the region several times, but never came across her or her cabin. Whether he stood any chance at all of doing so in his own was a mystery – the one aspect that seemed to permeate all of his latest endeavors.

The early morning sun could only turn the surrounding mist from grey to white, instead of breaking it. The squire felt as if he’d reached the very edge of the world. At any moment, the trees could stop popping out of the fog as he walked, and there’d be no way of telling where the ground ended and the sky began. There wasn’t a sound but the subtle whisper of his footsteps.

And then she appeared.

He didn’t see her approaching, and didn’t approach her either – just like the previous time, it was as if she’d always been there. The same heavy shawl covered her shoulders, and her breath steamed up around her as she smiled, her loose grey hair framing her face against the icy background.

“My offering of tea still stands”, she said, her voice full of kindness.

Isadore nodded.

~

Eve’s cabin was so different from Grace’s that the squire wondered if the women were really sisters. The first was dark and cramped, chaotic even without the added mess of its current occupants; it hid amongst the trees, just as whoever lived in it seemed to be concealing themselves from the world. It was the sort of place few would dare to explore, and would leave as soon as they came, haunted by a heavy uneasy feeling.

The latter, on the other hand, had light pouring in from all corners; its windows stood wide open, but the cold stayed outside, as if only the very concept of fresh air was allowed in. It was tidy, but not overly so; signs of life could be found everywhere, from the worn-out rug by the front door to the used dishes by the counter, just waiting to be dealt with. There were just as many books, but they were tucked away into shelves on the walls, guiding the way instead of obstructing it. It might not have much to offer, but it would offer everything it had; it was home.

Isadore took the teacup between his fingers – porcelain, delicately painted, the edges slightly chipped off after years of use. A kettle was hissing as soon as they’d arrived.

“Did you know I was coming?”, he asked, watching the steam rise from his tea.

“Not really”, Grace answered, pouring herself a cup, “though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Do the people who search for the relic in these mountains come back often, then?”

“Again, not really”, she said, sitting next to him by the kitchen table, “but you looked like you might.”

Isadore almost blushed. “How so?”

“The knight that accompanied you had accepted his fate, but you didn’t seem like you had.” Her voice was clear of judgement; he knew she’d welcome him regardless of what he did.

“Ah. I didn’t think I’d be so easy to read”, he looked down.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing”, she commented.

The room fell silent; he understood that she was waiting for him, following his rhythm. He was thankful for that.

“When we came by last time, the knight that was with me… He is the one who is cursed.”

“I’m sorry to head that”, she said, her words soft and careful. There was actual concern in her voice; it made the squire almost afraid of continuing his tale.

“I believe your sister is the one behind it”, he did it anyway, but not without sentiment.

“…I’m sorry to hear that too”, she responded, almost apologetically; the tone of someone who didn’t want it to be true, but understood such feelings brought no effect to the facts at hand.

“I found her cabin, we’ve been investigating her notes”, he started, suddenly feeling very invasive: the same woman who’d sent hundreds of pages of writings to that very shack was now standing in front of him, welcoming and patient. Those words were never meant for him, but he read through them anyway, over and over again. “You are the best lead I have on how to break it”, he continued, thinking it best not to go over his breach of her privacy, but knowing she’d figured it anyway. He felt his face growing red.

Grace smiled, though her eyes carried the sadness of a lifetime. “I am well aware of my sister’s damage”, she said. “You are not the first one to come to me for help.” She sighed. “However, as much as I wish I could, I don’t think I can do much for you.” Isadore’s heart sunk in his chest. “She was the most skilled one between the two of us, and she’s always been better at the practical aspects of spells… I’m more inclined towards theory, but that can only get you so far.”

“Can’t your sister help us, then?”, he asked, even though deep down he already knew the answer.

“After what she did, they burned her at the stake”, she said, her voice as cold as the outside landscape. “Though I suppose this is a fate we’ve come to expect.”

He looked away, his fingers playing with the handle on his teacup. He regretted bringing that up, but felt shamefully glad for the confirmation. “…I’m sorry”, he said, both for his actions and her situation. 

She blinked slowly, sipping her tea. “I don’t condone what she did”, she said after her pause. “But we cannot change the past”. She spoke with a level of certainty the squire had never heard before; he could do little but nod.

“…What about the relic?”, he asked. “You said its location keeps changing, but surely…” the words burned in his throat, crushing his lungs. He felt sick to his stomach. “I mean, if one truly desires to change someone’s fate, then…”

She smiled kindly at him, taking his hand. Isadore felt close to crying. In her gesture lied the continuation to his sentence, the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Come with me”, she said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

~

The squire recognized the trail Grace guided him through. He was sure he’d passed it once or twice back when he was still with the campaign, searching for what he now knew they’d never find. Pathways once filled with expectations of a certain future were now emptied of possible conclusions, the way ahead engulfed by the fog of the unknown – literally, too, as well as figuratively. The sky stood just as white as the snow, a thick mist connecting both of them, fused together. Only the trees stood out in the gloom, dark and vigilant. 

The woman stopped at a spot that looked identical to many others they’d passed through, standing next to a tree that could be easily mistaken for a thousand others – but did so with an air of absolute certainty, as if no other place would do.

“Amber, sweetie?”, Grace called, staring up at the branches. “Could you come talk to us?”

Nothing. The squire followed her line of sight, but couldn’t spot anything.

“Please?”, the woman tried again. “It would help us so much, dear.”

The silence continued, frigid and dead – and suddenly, the wind picked up, spiraling around them. The snow danced beneath their feet, lifted by the airy vortex, painting the scene even whiter. Grace didn’t take her eyes off the wood; Isadore tried doing the same, but the frost stung his vision, chilling him to the bone. He shielded his face with his arm, feeling his fingers grow more and more frigid, folding them into fists in order to stop them from freezing.

The gust subsided, becoming a swirling breeze, and then settling down completely. Grace was still looking up; but when the squire did the same, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Amber, which appeared to be the creature’s name, stared down at them, perched upon a tree branch, her knees folded against her chest. Her loose auburn hair cascaded around her, extensive in its length but impossibly light in its existence, practically floating, as if made of silk as thin as spiderwebs. Her eyes pierced Isadore’s very soul, burning like a forest fire, heat made to harm and destroy. Her complexion was flushed, but not from the cold – whatever sort of blood coursed through her veins, it was intense and boiling, life beyond what humans could bear.

“Thank you”, Grace exclaimed, smiling at the being; who in turn shifted her head away, reluctantly accepting it. It was clear that the only thing that had brought her there was a willingness to do the woman a favor. “I’ll give you two a moment”, she said, turning to Isadore and nodding quickly, walking back into the mist.

He wondered how long it’d take her to find his body.

“What do you want?”, Amber asked bitterly, with a voice that squeaked and echoed like a wooden door hesitant to open.

“I’m…” Isadore struggled to catch his breath, squinting at her figure. She had too much color, he thought. It glowed even more harshly than the white of the sky. “I’m looking for a relic”, he said. “A chalice, and if you drink from it you-“

“I know what you’re looking for”, she interrupted. “You’re not going to find it.”

“Grace said it’s not supposed to be found”, he attempted to explain. “But it doesn’t seem to want to find me either.”

“So?” Her thick eyebrows arched in hostility; Isadore felt his heart nearly stop. She was as if the concept of autumn had concentrated its colors onto a single entity, and gave it all the fierceness of the death brought by winter.

“…Do you know how it can be found?”, he asked.

“You cannot find it”, her voice stabbed the air. “I cursed it.”

“You… cursed it?”

She stood still.

“You… cursed it”, he repeated. “The one thing… capable of ending all curses.” His blood rose to his head, anger slowly overcoming his fear. “You cursed it?!”

She stayed quiet.

“The witch who placed the curse is gone, her sister cannot lift it”, he screamed at her, the tears welling up in his eyes, “and the one thing that could end this madness was cursed out of existence by you?”

Silence.

“Why?”

“You know nothing about curses”, she snarled. “If you did, you’d know it doesn’t take a witch to cast it, or a chalice to break it.” Her voice was acid like poison, stinging the squire’s chest. “I hid it because of people like you.”

“Like me?”, he refuted. “I’m trying to help someone!”

“You all think you are helping!”, she screamed back. “You’d be so quick to help me, if you were ordered to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I owe my life to the chalice”, she stated. “It made me who I am.” Isadore stepped back. How was that a good thing? To live such a hostile existence, to be made of the stuff of nightmares; that creature was the exact opposite of what a blessing should be. “Before it, I was trapped. It freed me”, her voice rang.

“…Freed you from what?”, he questioned. He couldn’t think of anything so bad that living like that was considered an improvement.

“You don’t know a curse when you see one”, she said. “You can’t see it now, and you wouldn’t have seen it back then.”

“…Even if I don’t know anything about curses”, he tried again, “why don’t you want the rest of us to be free of them too?”

“How can you expect to lift a curse if you don’t even know what a curse is?”, she asked. “It’s men like you who try to decide what my curse is, who assume you have to break it – and now you can’t.” There was almost triumph in her spite, a creeping tinge of satisfaction.

“This has nothing to do with you!”

“Didn’t you follow my father’s orders?”, she snapped. “Carried his banners, followed his maps? I saw you as your little party came to the mountain, I knew what you were planning to do!”

The squire hesitated. For a moment, he’d forgotten about the true nature of that campaign; all that was left in his heart was his knight’s secret mission, and the thousands of narratives he’d made to calculate its outcome. None of them involved honoring the king’s wishes – but wouldn’t he have done it before, even without knowing the full story? Mechanically, of course, but even so; it was meaningless to him, but not to the other parties involved.

“He refused to see the curse of my existence back then”, Amber said, “and now he refuses to see me as anything but cursed. The very tool that saved me could bring my demise if he used it.” She hugged her own knees, suddenly looking very fragile. Isadore was hit by how small she actually was – if standing next to him, she’d barely reach his chest. “Either way, what’s done is done”, she continued. “I couldn’t recover the chalice even if I wanted to. I cursed it so it could never be found again.”

Heavy snow started to fall. Isadore lowered his head, both shielding his eyes from the sprinkling flakes and taking a moment to gather his thoughts. That was it, then – there was no one who could help him. Amber had gone so far to protect her own life she’d essentially doomed the one he was trying to save. He breathed out sharply, a mix between a sob and a chuckle, and looked back at the branch.

But Amber was gone.


	18. If you wish

A blanket covered his shoulders; Grace had placed it there, and he did not refuse it. When she’d found him in the snow, paralyzed within the same spot where Amber had once appeared, his heart felt so frozen no amount of heat could thaw out the damage. His body ached at its very core. He’d never felt more exhausted.

“I see Amber was her usual friendly self”, commented the woman, a little playfully but mostly compassionately. “You’ll have to excuse her, she doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”

Isadore nodded, staring into the tea from the cup he held between his hands. There was anger, but it wasn’t fully directed at the creature: even if he didn’t want to, he understood why she went to such lengths to preserve the lifted state of her supposed curse. If push came to shove, he would’ve done the same, and didn’t expect anyone else to see why.

“I still think it’s good that you had a chance to talk”, she continued. “It means more coming from her than it would’ve from me. The reality of it all can be quite maddening, but I want you to know that she had her reasons to do what she did.”

“I believe you”, said the squire with a shy mumble.

She placed a single hand upon his shoulder, keeping it there for a second or so before removing it as she stood up, walking towards the kitchen and putting some dishes away. Isadore took a sip from his tea, finding it to be the perfect temperature – which filled him with the biggest sense of comfort he’d felt during the past weeks. He wrapped the blanket further upon his arms.

“There is something she said”, the squire thought out loud – not that he was the type to do so. He didn’t know if this courage came from the cabin’s welcoming environment, or if he’d lost so much of his perspective that there was nothing left to do but speak his mind. “How a curse doesn’t need to be cast by a witch or lifted by a relic to be a curse.” He wondered how much of that applied to the creature; or why she thought herself better than him for having learned such a lesson.

“What about it?”, asked Grace, just outside his field of vision.

“She claimed I knew nothing of them.”

He could hear the woman pause her activities from across the room, and then quickly resume them. “Having different perspectives doesn’t mean yours is wrong”, she said.

Isadore shrunk under the covers. The mere thought of Dale’s condition could send him shaking. He felt his arms growing tenser. “It might be”, he said, his mouth curling up into a devastated smile. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know much of anything at all.”

Grace didn’t respond, but somehow, he could tell she was listening. He took another sip of his tea. His hands felt fuzzy, like he wasn’t able to tell where his fingers ended and the cup began. He held on to that warmth, keeping it while he could, knowing that he’d soon have to venture out into the freezing woods again, and then… then what, exactly? Go back to the cabin? Take on Dale’s place as a rogue knight, forever traveling the world in search of a cure? How much time would that “forever” even last?

“…Why did your sister do it?”, he heard himself asking. 

He could feel the hesitation in her silence. “Why would anyone do it, really”, she finally said. “You know our kind has never been treated softly. But then again, she had her own set of issues, and the pull of the magic certainly didn’t help…” she sighed, but her voice quickly shifted into a less sentimental tone, continuing with an explanation: “It has a way of messing with your mind, the deeper you get into it. It takes a lot of effort to resist it, especially because the effects themselves are slow at first, and then escalate all at once... But they are noticeable regardless.”

“Magic is a bad thing, then?”

“Only if you let it become so”, she approached him, placing her hand upon his back. “Though in her case, her mind had always felt bound to do it.”

He recalled her notes, and how they progressed from clear to scrawled; even if she were still alive, how much of her sanity would there still be left? He stared down into his cup. The more he seemed to fight his situation, the more hopeless it revealed itself to be.

And so, almost sensing his desperation, Grace sat beside him. “Magic itself is not reserved to us”, she said, blinking softly. “It is everywhere, as it has always been; it permeates life itself, the very fabric of our existence”, she gesticulated, pointing at nothing, but at everything at the same time. “Us witches just have an easier time bending it to our will, but that won’t stop you from doing it as well.”

“…What do you mean?”, he asked, lifting his head.

“It shouldn’t come as news to you”, she smiled. “Back when you first came to the mountains, I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

“Knew what?”

“That you thought it could be done!”, she exclaimed softly. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think so.”

Isadore’s mind was filled with that cherished memory. A true love’s kiss can break any curse, or so he’d heard; and that leap of faith had forever sealed the connection between him and his knight. It was a promise they’d never break, a link that would never shatter.

It had changed everything, and nothing at all.

“Magic doesn’t seem to be on my side”, he lamented, looking away.

Grace kept her eyes on him, as if waiting for another reaction – but Isadore couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. She turned her head as well, staring into the same void.

“Amber didn’t find the chalice”, she said. The squire lifted his gaze, readjusting his posture. “My nephew was the one who did it, for it could feel he wanted to help her. He’d moved in with me a few years ago, since my sister feared the people from the nearby village would come to harm him. He met Amber on these very mountains, as she’d ran away. He was the one who brought the relic to her, and the last person who ever found it.”

“But what did he save her from?”, he asked. “What was wrong with her?”

“Nothing was”, answered Grace, meeting his glance. “It just so happened that she’d been born into a life she couldn’t stand, a fate she couldn’t love – even though most would see nothing wrong with it. After all, so many dream of becoming royalty”, she smiled.

Isadore shook his head in confusion, not knowing on which revelation to focus on first. “But then if she hated it so much, shouldn’t the chalice sense her unhappiness?”, he questioned.

“Oh, I’m sure it could”, she replied. “Anyone could sense that, relic or not.”

“Then why didn’t it come to her?”

“Because she believed there was no way out”, declared Grace. “She’d decided that she was to be forever bound to those circumstances, and that she was destined to live in misery.” Her voice was firm, but kind all the way through. “And because she thought she couldn’t break her own curse, she never wished to do so.”

Isadore blinked, slowly turning away. He held on to the teacup, unsure of what else to do. 

“A wish can be a very powerful thing”, she added. “The strongest of spells are usually channeled through them. They can be grand enough to shake the very foundations of life”, she said, adjusting the side of the blanket so it fully covered Isadore’s arm, “or so simple they are barely even noticed.”

The squire glanced at her through the corner of his eye, and turned his attention back to his tea, sipping it again – only then realizing it had kept the exact same temperature. In fact, it seemed to be the same cup that Grace had poured him when he first arrived there, even before he’d met Amber.

“Could a wish really be powerful enough to lift a curse?”, he thought to himself, only realizing he’d said those words out loud after they were out in the open.

“It could be powerful enough to do anything!”, answered the lady.

Isadore shook his head as a reflex – even in that aspect, he seemed to fail; if he truly wished for his knight to be cured, why couldn’t he put it into practice? “Something isn’t right”, he said, knowing that something to be himself.

“Sometimes,” Grace added softly, “we think we understand the full picture, but there are still things out of sight.” Isadore looked at her. “Just like Amber’s curse, most wouldn’t think it so until they got to see it from her perspective. We are so used to seeing things from our own eyes that we forget there is a lot more to learn.”

The squire stared down. He liked to believe he knew more about The Flower Knight than anyone else, especially now, but he kept on forgetting that what he did know was but a fraction of all there really was to know. “I suppose you’re right”, he smiled sadly. “I just wish there was more I could do.”

“I’m sure you do”, said the woman. “I’m sure many others do, too.”

Isadore stared into his tea, feeling as if it could almost stare back – but he did not wish to face that image. He knew it was silly of him to think he could ever succeed; if even Dale had failed for so many years, what chance did he stand? He might as well go mad with trying, sinking himself into magic that would never respect him, in the hopes of understanding a language that was never meant for him.

And with that, suddenly, he understood a bit more of the full picture.

He needed to leave.

He stared back at Grace, attempting to thank her for her hospitality, but she was already brushing him off and saying it was no trouble at all, folding the blanket as he removed it from his shoulders, almost as if she could sense his epiphany.

“Do come back if you ever need more tea”, she smiled, waving at him from the door.

But Isadore didn’t think he’d ever be coming back.


	19. Consequences

Although his journey to the mountains had seemed to pass by impossibly fast, his trip back stretched itself on through a thousand years – or at least that’s what it felt like to Isadore’s heart. Before, there was still the underlying hope of finding a cure to The Flower Knight’s curse; but now, that had been overpowered by the anxiety regarding the state he’d been left in. Isadore hoped, prayed so that the other would still have not fully succumbed to his condition; that the two of them could still share a moment before it escalated into irreversible tragedy. Either way, he was not the only one the squire was worried about.

Much to his relief, he saw that things remained more or less the same – albeit slightly more out of order. Dale was still mostly unresponsive, weakly holding on to Isadore’s hand as the latter attempted to speak to him, which made the squire wonder whether his knight had even been conscious enough to understand that the other had been gone. Harper had somehow even more books spread around the table, and entire pages filled with annotations; she claimed to be close to a breakthrough, one that could finally crack that troublesome alphabet.

She asked him of his trip, wondering if he’d made any new discoveries. He answered vaguely, shaking his head; she lowered her gaze in disappointment, but brushed it off with a shrug, returning to her pages. Isadore couldn’t take his eyes off her. Bathed in the golden sunset light cascading from the window, she seemed to be almost burning. He questioned whether she’d gotten any sleep ever since he left, and strongly suspected otherwise.

He went back to his routine, although unfocused. The letters were ignored for now, he’d gotten all he wanted from them; he dedicated himself to his previous chores, keeping the place in order. With every swipe of his broom or chop of his cooking knives, his thoughts wandered off, taking a while to find themselves back in that reality.

The previous weeks flashed before his eyes, carefully scanned. He vividly remembered the first time he saw Dale’s curse in action, the flowers bursting through the open flesh, more colors than vision could account for. He recalled the knight’s hesitant words when talking about it, his telling of his own painful journey, the answers to Isadore’s questions. He relived every utterance, every unspoken sentence, every glance and action, multiple times in his own head – and yet, he always reached the same conclusion.

Whenever he managed to quit zoning out, his attention was turned straight to Harper. It took him some effort to convince her to rest, but he eventually got through to her – it was honest concern, but there was a hint of selfishness to it. He needed her to fully trust him if he was to ask her what he wanted.

After a few days, filled with hot meals and cups of tea, he figured it was time to attempt his investigation.

He approached her as she worked on her texts, revising some of the annotations she’d already completed. “Can I ask you something?”, he began, trying to sound as casual as possible – pretending he hadn’t just spent the previous hour rehearsing that one question in his mind.

“Sure”, she answered, only half-listening.

“I was going over your notes on that one counterspell you tried”, he continued, “and I was wondering if you could help me understand some of its parts.”

“I guess”, she said, glancing at him with a messy smile, the kind that doesn’t want to interrupt what it’s doing but that doesn’t feel confrontational enough to say so. She quickly turned back to the pages in front of her. “Though like I said, it didn’t really work for me.”

“It’s ok”, he replied, letting out a calculated chuckle. “I’m sure you still know way more about it than I do.”

She didn’t say anything in return, clearly more interested in her own investigations than in that conversation. Isadore had hoped this would happen, though it was mostly because of how much he dreaded the moment in which it would have to stop from happening – the one he intended to trigger with his next question.

“There was one step in particular”, he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “The one about enchanting a dagger; I was wondering if you’d done it.”

Harper was quiet.

“Since, I mean, it’s an easy step to miss, with the spell to do it being in a different part of the book and all”, he said. “You have to understand the text quite a bit, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“You knew exactly what the consequences were, didn’t you?”

She nodded again.

“And yet, you still wanted to succeed.” She nodded once more. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want her to face the curse alone.” She kept on looking down. Her hands tensed up against the table.

“But you’d be the one who’d have to deal with it!”, contested Isadore. “Harper, you’d transfer the curse to yourself!” The spell was created to lift a curse, sure, but it had a catch. The evil of such a condition could never fully fade.

“Not all of it!”, she turned around to face him, her curly hair swinging wildly with the movement. “I’d just take some of it off her shoulders!”

“But why?”

“I don’t know!”, exclaimed the girl. “Maybe then she’d wake up again! We could look for a cure together!”

“You really think that would work?”, he asked, his voice faltering at the end. Coming out of his mouth, the words sounded bitter and hostile; but they were sincere. He wasn’t questioning her judgement – he wondered if there could be an actual chance for success.

“I don’t know!”, she gestured with her hands, lifting them up around her shoulders. “But what else was I supposed to do? Just leave her alone?” She turned her back to Isadore, crossing her arms tightly in front of her chest. “It didn’t even work anyway. I wasn’t made for that spell.” She sighed, shifting a little to the side, facing the squire with the corner of her eye. “But there has to be something else we can do”, she said, loosening her posture and mindlessly rubbing the scar on the palm of her hand. “I’m not giving up on her.”

“Even if you don’t know her?”

“I feel like I could know her”, she declared, fixing her glasses and turning to him. Isadore couldn’t help but notice she was blushing. “But I’ll never know it unless I lift her curse.”

He could feel his own breath shaking, even though he wasn’t the one who’d just yelled. Harper kept her stance for another moment or so, before diving back into the dozens of tomes surrounding her.

He held on to his own arms, keeping his gaze upon the girl for a while, watching as she stood consumed by her own determination. He knew his words sounded merciless – he would’ve thought so too, if someone had directed them at him instead.

And still, what concerned him the most weren’t the discoveries provided by this recent interrogation.

It was the certainty that Dale had attempted that very same spell before.


	20. To steal a curse

As Isadore waited, he realized he hadn’t seen Joan in a while.

He hadn’t returned to her clearing ever since visiting it with Dale; but mostly, she hadn’t been coming to his dreams anymore. That omission wasn’t noticed at first, he’d been so occupied with his mission that he didn’t realize the lack of dread upon waking up - his heart was already filled to the brim with that. Now, however, the realization came sudden and distressing. Her absence really did hurt more than her presence.

He wondered what the true extent of that fact was. She was still alive, albeit barely, for Dale remained just as vivid; and, as far as he understood, the curse would have to get to him first before ending her. He thought of his knight, staring back at the bed where the squire knew him to be lying on - a bookshelf blocked his vision of it from the witch’s desk, but he didn’t need to see it to realize the other was still there.

Could Joan’s condition be affected by the fighter’s? Perhaps he’d been delaying more than just her death by sharing her curse; he’d retained its full effects, stopping her from worsening at the cost of his own health - and he could no longer bear to be that barrier. The squire still kept an eye on his decline, though it seemed to have stabilized - they just couldn’t predict for how long it’d stay so.

He couldn’t afford to guess anymore.

The golden streaks of light beamed through the window, indicating that the afternoon was almost over. Isadore got up. The room was soon painted impossibly orange - he’d studied the cause and found it to be just as unbelievable, for just when the sun started to set, the nearby trees spread their crowns back, opening up a path to the sky that was never seen during any other hour. Leaning against the window frame, he could see they did the same thing now, as they’d so reliably done during all other days.

It was quite the feat, but he had to admit most wouldn’t notice it. It took him a while, too – that cabin was so glum during all other hours that one wouldn’t question the feeble daily change, only be grateful for it, most likely forgetting it as soon as it was done.

Harper slept with her arms crossed upon a book, her hair fully covering the head that rested on them. Her shoulders moved up and down with her heavy breaths, her mind lost in a dimension of slumber only exhaustion could bring. The squire kept his distance whenever that happened, afraid of disturbing her, but found that even catastrophic levels of noise could not snap her out of that state. It worked to his advantage, he figured, as he gently reached down her pocket and pulled out her dagger.

He recalled the time she’d pricked his finger with it, still somewhat astonished by that event. The mark had disappeared, but not the memory, or the image of the weapon in his mind. Inspecting it up close, he could see how easily it could be mistaken for an ordinary blade; but he knew better. The edges were carefully sharp, and the metal had a brownish tint to it, almost as if it had been bathed in wood. He was unaware of the steps required to enchant it, but the fact that the procedure had been done at all was enough for him, especially considering how the step was so easy to miss. The fact that Harper went through with it meant that she had both time and determination in her hands - and a hint of desperation too.

Dale, on the other hand, only had the latter two. Not that Isadore blamed him for overlooking the dagger enchantment; he knew his knight most likely couldn’t afford to waste that kind of time anyway. He also would’ve been too busy to realize the light from the setting sun was perfectly able to pass through the surrounding foliage into the cabin, meaning he had to go out and find a clearing in order to perform the ritual when he’d tried to. The thing that separated him from his squire was the amount of research done.

Isadore sat on the corner of the fighter’s bed, taking the other’s left hand into his own – a faded scar cut through his palm, tracing a line between the base of his index finger to the opposite corner of his wrist. The squire ran his thumb through it, barely touching the skin; his mark seemed a lot older than Harper’s. Dale showed no reaction, his heart barely beating. Isadore brushed the locks out of his knight’s forehead, tangling his finger through the other’s hair for a split second, only to lean over and kiss him near his temple.

Basking under that deep light of tanned hues, Isadore held the dagger and slashed through the scar on The Flower Knight’s palm. 

The wound, now reopened, gushed out all of its botanical glory, quickly filling the squire’s lap with countless petals and buds and leaves, colors too rich to name, too varied to account for. He counted down and held his breath, taking his own left hand and repeating the movement from index to wrist, crimson blood dripping out. Closing his eyes, the squire laced his fingers with his knight’s, the open lines mirrored and connected.

Suddenly, the vines that once flowed outwards now wrapped themselves around Isadore’s arm, their grip so fierce he couldn’t undo it if he tried. He shuddered upon feeling them invade his insides, ripping through veins as if they were cobwebs, shattering nerves and cartilage, crushing bones like dried twigs. They pushed through his shoulder, nearly jolting his arm back, and descended down his ribs, closing off the spaces between them with a net more tightly-woven than muslin. He coughed as they crashed through his lungs, tearing them apart, rustling further with every breath he attempted to draw. They drowned out his heart, twisted his guts, clutched his spine with invincible restraint. Tears were pushed out of his eyes as the greenery reached his head, filling up every cell, every fissure.

Or so it felt like – and it was the worst thing he’d ever felt.

But as he looked down to their hands, it was the knight’s that flushed with red.

Isadore smiled.

Dale opened his eyes, struggling with the weight of the movement. He blinked slowly, then rapidly, turning to his squire, and then to their hands.

Fighting off his lethargy, he tried to say something - but Isadore silenced him with a kiss, and ran outside.

~

The foliage itself seemed to bend to his rushed steps – Isadore could feel as if its mass was pulled towards him, the same kind of force that drags a fallen tree towards the ground. The mere effort, he figured, to keep on moving, was akin to trying to tow down every piece of greenery with one’s bare hands.

His legs ached with each step, the pain nearly ripping through his skin, his lungs burning with his heaving breaths, his spine about to snap with the weight of a lifetime’s worth of suffering condensed into a single second, eternally followed by many others exactly alike. It was all the agony he’d felt in his dreams, but this time directed entirely towards him, and not coming as a second-hand ailment.

And still, he pushed through, striding along the woods as fast as he could. Joan had had to carry it for years, he could stand to take it for a few minutes more. He wondered if Dale’s suffering increased over time, or if he’d always felt as terrible as the squire did now – he was willing to bet on the first, but wouldn’t be surprised if the knight’s willpower got him through all his adventures while in constant pain.

The sun was touching the horizon now, the light coming in from the side of the ground. He made his way towards the clearing, hoping that the time interval was forgiving enough to account for his speed – still, even in his condition, he managed to move faster than most men walked. He wouldn’t allow himself to go any slower.

The cut on his hand was practically closed off now, nevermind the fact that he’d open it again in a few minutes. Some chamomile petals still seeped out, floating behind him as he hiked forward. A sick thought came to him, of how he felt less repulsed by the sight of the flowers than of his own blood, even though it meant he had to suffer the consequences of the curse. Still, he smiled. There wasn’t a speck of regret in his heart.

He reached the patch of grass where the girl lied, burning in the sunset glow. He kneeled down beside her, taking her hand into his – and seeing, just as he suspected, that it was marked by the same scar as Dale’s and his own.

He produced the dagger again, reopening the gash where it stood on her palm, the flowers spouting out even more violently. It almost hurt his eyes to try and absorb such abundance at once. He cut through his own hand much more easily this time, not slowed down by his aversions, and held on to Joan’s immediately after doing so.

The flood was invasive, destructive; torture. All the agony he already felt now stood doubled, tripled, and it only increased. The vines knew no limits, and broke all those that they found. They slithered and multiplied, sunk in their roots in like needles, claiming every molecule as their own. Isadore had reached a level of anguish too great to scream it out.

And yet, even amidst all that suffering, he rejoiced, fully welcoming every twinge and spasm, every act of ruin. It was all his now, the pain, the desperation, the curse at its full potential. He succeeded where Dale had backfired, where Harper had failed, where he deserved to more than anyone else.

For in all the moments he got to share with his knight, every blessed word and action, Dale had never seen the curse as his. He never cared to lift it for his part – it was all for Joan. It was her burden, her malady, and he was merely helping her bear it. No use in trying to save someone from something that they don’t see is threatening them.

What he could do, however, is steal it.

The trees twisted themselves towards them, the wind circling them in a swirl, every blade of grass pointing to the clearing. Isadore somehow knew the both of them carried more greenery inside their veins than all the plants in that forest combined. Soon, he’d be its sole carrier. He thought back to the visions in his dreams, the heaviness in Joan’s eyes, their shared misery. She’d be free of it all, both her and her brother, they’d be safe.

Isadore couldn’t be happier.

The motion of the foliage stopped, just as the flood between her palms. The squire looked down, and saw that the girl was bleeding.

He ripped out a piece of his own shirt, wrapping it around her hand, the movement coming to him as weighty as the concept of gravity itself. Every muscle in his body begged him to stop, but he knew that if he rested now he’d never get up again.

Joan woke up with a gasp, staring at her own fingers. Her face turned to Isadore as she attempted to sit up, struggling with the action, as if the rest of her body hadn’t been quite revived yet. He helped her up, holding on to her shoulder with her hand while pressing on to her palm with the other.

As their eyes met, the squire was flooded with the certainty that he’d recognize her anywhere; that the smile in her gaze would find him in any crowd, and that they’d forever hold that same life, that same strength. He smiled at her, in every way a body could smile, beaming even harder when she did the same.

The sky was turning dark now, a few stars speckled throughout. The squire heard a shuffle coming from the hillside and turned his head towards it, the movement resulting in more nausea than any spinning could justify.

He saw Dale climbing over the path, his steps eager but weary, his left hand hastily bandaged. Harper helped him up the ridge, holding him up by his arm.

Isadore shot him a triumphant smile. The curse was his, entirely his; nothing to share, nothing to worry. The Flower Knight was free.

Dale stared at him, the love in his eyes bright enough to outshine the sun.

Isadore basked in it, and then was out like a light.


	21. All that was left

Pain.

Chronic and constant, sinking and trampling. It was too much, and at all times, and it drained him to his core. He’d fought it for as long as he could, but there was no more energy left. He wasn’t one for resilience, was never made for determination. He was fine with it, as fine as one could be. He stood alone, only; he’d succeeded.

He’d won.

He thought about Dale, with whatever thoughts he still had left. How thrilled he must be. A knight is only as good as the fights he picks, and he’d fought his to the very end, even at the cost of his health – but now he got to have it all back; his strength, his body, his life.

Tired.

The pain was taxing, absolute. He wished to do nothing but rest, and he couldn’t figure out how to rest more than what he was already doing.

Dale would keep Joan safe, the squire was sure of that. Not that the girl needed much help in that regard; from what he’d seen, she could stand her ground better than anyone. Nothing could defeat them as long as they stayed together, and nothing would stop that from happening now.

Fading.

Slowly, more so than time could measure; but it was there. His existence would end eventually, he was sure. His forever was not as eternal as it seemed. He didn’t even have the stamina to wish it would vanish faster.

It didn’t matter. He’d already lived through more than anyone could brag about.

He’d known love like no other ever had.

As fighters come, he figured, whenever he caught enough hold of his own mind to do it, he must’ve been a good one. They’re only as good as their causes; and no one loved their cause more than he did.

To know such drive and purpose, such light and warmth, such a blessing.

How fantastic it had been.


	22. Free

There was air in his lungs.

He knew so because he breathed it in, deeper than he ever had. It encountered no obstacles in its path, and caused no pain with its presence.

There was a hand that held him, stationed at the back of his head. He was weightless against it; it carried his weight for him.

There was light that surrounded him, subtle and gentle. The moon stood full in the sky, countless stars surrounding it.

There were lips pressed against his, desperate and trusting and loving, so deeply loving. They carried all the words he wished to hear, and they said them all in that careful silence, that caring gesture. It filled all his senses, his entire existence.

He wished for nothing else.

Dale pulled back, tears still stuck to the corners of his lashes, many others leaving glistening trails against his face. Isadore stared into the eyes that held them, overtaken by the beauty in that stare. He turned his gaze towards his own hand, his wound frozen mid-healing, specks of flesh still not entirely closed off.

Blood.

A true love’s kiss can break any curse.

Dale laughed, crying even more. He pulled Isadore towards him, locking his squire into an embrace tighter than the grip of any vine, deeper than the roots of any tree. Isadore dived into it, with no intention of ever coming out. 

From over the fighter’s shoulder, Joan smiled at him, with more than just her eyes this time. She had her arm locked around Harper’s, who in turn had a single hand placed upon the girl’s dense black hair.

Together they stood, alive.

A blessing.


	23. Home

The cabin really wasn’t all that bad, Isadore concluded. It just needed some reconfiguration. Moving the bookshelves was the worst part, since they were made of terribly heavy wood, and all tomes had to be removed if they were to stand a chance at budging it, but they did it either way. They decorated the walls now, instead of obstructing the corridors; some were left as a sort of divider, creating a separate room, The space seemed to almost double in size.

Wood was plentiful; they made new chairs, even new beds. There was another village, not all that far from where they stood; it could provide them with whatever else they needed for now. 

The garden expanded. Joan was pretty good at that; she used to tend to the gardens at her old house too, she explained. Harper joined her outside, both returning later in the afternoon with their knees covered in dirt. They laughed at it, as they laughed at many things – Isadore didn’t know at what, but he smiled whenever he heard them. Their voices filled the woods with joy just as much as they filled his heart.

The girl’s connection had been so instantaneous Isadore wondered if it had been meant to be. Joan wasn’t exactly the talkative kind, but that didn’t seem to bother Harper at all – in fact, it only encouraged her to talk more. The man had already found her enthusiastic before, but now she was unstoppable. Joan smiled through every word.

He wondered if it bothered her, if she ever grew tired of such excessive energy.

“On the contrary”, was her response. “I’ve always wished for someone like her.”

The kitchen table was free now, with all spellbooks back into place. Harper seemed to have lost interest in them. Every now and then, her eyes still drifted towards the shelves, but all it took was one comment from Joan for her to snap out of it. As for Joan herself, she’d read Harper’s notes out of curiosity, and even flipped through some of the pages from those mysterious tomes, but seemed equally unfazed. Isadore was more thankful for that than he cared to admit.

He still wondered if the king’s men would come for them, seeking revenge against the knight who turned his back on his monarch; but they never came. He sometimes dreamed of the forest too, the pain having returned, belonging entirely to him – but it didn’t last long, or cause him much trouble.

And whenever it did, Dale was there for him.

Dale’s arms would hold them throughout the night, as they laid side by side. Dale’s fingers ran through his hair, and tangled themselves with his own. Dale’s lips brushed against his, and his neck and his hands and his face, and Isadore wished those moments could last forever.

When looking into the man’s eyes, Isadore still saw the same fearless determination, enough power to defeat a thousand armies – but now he also saw peace, a drive not to be somewhere else but instead to stay exactly where he was.

Happiness.

The wind rustled the trees surrounding them, the golden sunset light seeping in through the cracks – a synesthesic melody of love and shelter, victory in every possible way. Isadore smiled, the feeling barely contained in his heart. Dale smiled back.

Magic, in its true form.


End file.
